Brisingr Part 3

MESSAGE IN AMIRROR

The morning sun beat down on Saphira, suffusing her with a pleasant warmth.

She lay basking on a smooth shelf of stone several feet above Eragon’s empty cloth-shell-tent. The
night’s activities, flying around scouting the Empire’s locations—as she had every night since Nasuada
sent Eragon to the big-hollow-mountain-Farthen Dûr—had left her drowsy. The flights were necessary to
conceal Eragon’s absence, but the routine wore on her, for while the dark held no terrors for her, she
was not nocturnal by habit, and she disliked having to do anything with such regularity. Also, since it took
the Varden so long to move from place to place, she spent most of her time soaring over much the same
landscape every night. The only recent excitement was when she spotted
stunted-thoughts-red-scales-Thorn low on the northeastern horizon the previous morning. He had not
turned to confront her, however, but had continued on his way, heading deeper into the Empire. When
Saphira had reported what she had seen, Nasuada, Arya, and the elves guarding Saphira had reacted
like a flock of frightened jays, screaming and yammering at each other while darting every which way.
They had even insisted that black-blue-wolf-hair-Blödhgarm fly with her in the guise of Eragon, which of
course she had refused to allow. It was one thing to permit the elf to place a water-shadow-ghost of
Eragon on her back every time she took off from or landed among the Varden, but she was not about to
let anyone other than Eragon ride her unless a battle was imminent, and perhaps not even then.

Saphira yawned and stretched out her right foreleg, spreading the clawed fingers of her paw. Relaxing
again, she wrapped her tail around her body and adjusted the position of her head on her paws, visions
of deer and other prey drifting through her mind.

Not long afterward, she heard the patter of feet as someone ran through the camp, heading toward
Nasuada’s folded-wing-red-butterfly-chrysalis-tent. Saphira paid little attention to the sound; messengers
were always hurrying to and fro.

Just as she was about to fall asleep, Saphira heard another runner dash past, then, after a brief interval,
two more. Without opening her eyes, she extended the tip of her tongue and tasted the air. She detected


no unusual odors. Deciding that the disturbance was not worth investigating, she drifted off into dreams of
diving for fish in a cool green lake.

Angry shouting woke Saphira.

She did not stir as she listened to a large number of round-ear-two-legs arguing with each other. They
were too far away for her to make out the words, but from the tone of their voices, she could tell they
were angry enough to kill. Disputes sometimes broke out among the Varden, just as they did in any large
herd, but never before had she heard so many two-legs argue for so long and with so much passion.

A dull throbbing formed at the base of Saphira’s skull as the two-legs’ shouting intensified. She tightened
her claws against the stone beneath her, and with sharp cracks, thin wafers of the quartz-laden rock
flaked off around the tips of her talons.

I shall count to thirty-three,she thought,and if they have not stopped by then, they had better hope
that whatever upset them was worth disrupting the rest of a daughter-of-the-wind!

When Saphira reached the count of seven-and-twenty, the two-legs fell silent.At last! Shifting to a more
comfortable position, she prepared to resume her much-needed slumber.

Metal clinked, plant-cloth-hides swished, skin-paw-coverings thudded against the ground, and the
unmistakable scent of dark-skin-warrior-Nasuada wafted over Saphira.What now? she wondered, and
briefly considered roaring at everyone until they fled in terror and left her alone.

Saphira opened a single eye and saw Nasuada and her six guards striding toward where she lay. At the
lower end of the slab of stone, Nasuada ordered her guards to remain behind with Blödhgarm and the
other elves—who were sparring with each other on a small expanse of grass—and then she climbed the
slab by herself.

“Greetings, Saphira,” Nasuada said. She wore a red dress, and the color seemed unnaturally strong
against the green leaves of the apple trees behind her. Glints of light from Saphira’s scales mottled her
face.

Saphira blinked once, feeling no inclination to answer with words.

After glancing around, Nasuada stepped closer to Saphira’s head and whispered, “Saphira, I must
speak to you in private. You can reach into my mind, but I cannot reach into yours. Can you remain
inside me, so I can think what I need to say and you will hear?”

Extending herself toward the woman’s tense-hard-tired-consciousness, Saphira allowed her irritation at
being kept from her sleep to wash over Nasuada, and then she said,I can if I so choose, but I would
never do so without your permission .

Of course,Nasuada replied.I understand . At first Saphira received nothing but disjointed images and
emotions from the woman: a gallows with an empty noose, blood on the ground, snarling faces, dread,
weariness, and an undercurrent of grim determination.Forgive me, said Nasuada.I have had a trying
morning. If my thoughts wander overmuch, please bear with me .

Saphira blinked again.What is it that has stirred up the Varden so? A group of men roused me from
my sleep with their ill-tempered wrangling, and before that, I heard an unusual number of


messengers racing through the camp .

Pressing her lips together, Nasuada turned away from Saphira and crossed her arms, cradling her
healing forearms with cupped hands. The coloring of her mind became black as a midnight cloud, full of
intimations of death and violence. After an uncharacteristically long pause, she said,One of the Varden, a
man by the name of Othmund, crept into the Urgals’ camp last night and killed three of them
while they were asleep around their fire. The Urgals failed to catch Othmund at the time, but this
morning, he claimed credit for the deed and was boasting of it throughout the army.

Why did he do this?Saphira asked.Did the Urgals kill his family?

Nasuada shook her head.I almost wish they had, because then the Urgals would not be so upset;
revenge, at least, they understand. No, that’s the strange part of this affair; Othmund hates the
Urgals for no other reason than they are Urgals. They have never wronged him, nor his kin, and
yet he loathes Urgals with every fiber of his body. Or so I gather after having spoken with him.

How will you deal with him?

Nasuada looked at Saphira again, a profound sadness in her eyes.He will hang for his crimes. When I
accepted the Urgals into the Varden, I decreed that anyone who attacked an Urgal would be
punished as if he had attacked a fellow human. I cannot go back on my word now .

Do you regret your promise?

No. The men needed to know I would not condone such acts. Otherwise, they might have turned
against the Urgals the very day Nar Garzhvog and I made our pact. Now, however, I must show
them I meant what I said. If I don’t, there will be even more murders, and then the Urgals will
take matters into their own hands, and once again, our two races shall be snapping at each
other’s throats. It is only right Othmund should die for killing the Urgals and for defying my
order, but oh, Saphira, the Varden will not like this. I have sacrificed my own flesh to win their
loyalty, but now they will hate me for hanging Othmund. . . . They will hate me for equating the
lives of Urgals with the lives of humans. Lowering her arms, Nasuada tugged at the cuffs of her
sleeves.And I cannot say I like it any more than they will. For all my attempts to treat the Urgals
openly and fairly and as equals, as my father would have, I cannot help but remember how they
killed him. I cannot help but remember the sight of all those Urgals slaughtering the Varden
during the Battle of Farthen Dûr. I cannot help but remember the many stories I heard when I was
a child, stories of Urgals sweeping out of the mountains and murdering innocent people in their
beds. Always Urgals were the monsters to be feared, and here I have joined our fate with theirs. I
cannot help but remember all that, Saphira, and I find myself wondering if I have made the right
decision .

You cannot help but be human,said Saphira, attempting to comfort Nasuada.Yet you do not have to
be bound by what those around you believe. You can grow beyond the limits of your race if you
have the will. If the events of the past can teach us anything, it is that the kings and queens and
other leaders who have brought the races closer together are the ones who have accomplished the
greatest good in Alagaësia. It is strife and anger we must guard against, not closer relations with
those who were once our foes. Remember your distrust of the Urgals, for they have well earned it,
but also remember that once dwarves and dragons loved one another no more than humans and
Urgals. And once dragons fought against the elves and would have driven their race extinct if we
could have. Once those things were true, but no more, because people like you had the courage to
set aside past hatreds and forge bonds of friendship where, previously, none existed.


Nasuada pressed her forehead against the side of Saphira’s jaw, then said,You are very wise, Saphira.

Amused, Saphira lifted her head off her paws and touched Nasuada on the brow with the tip of her
snout.I speak the truth as I see it, no more. If that is wisdom, then you are welcome to it; however,
I believe you already possess all the wisdom you need. Executing Othmund may not please the
Varden, but it will take more than this to break their devotion to you. Besides, I am sure you can
find a way to mollify them .

Aye,said Nasuada, wiping the corners of her eyes with her fingers.I will have to, I think . Then she
smiled and her face was transformed.But Othmund was not why I came to see you. Eragon just
contacted me and asked for you to join him in Farthen Dûr. The dwarves —

Arching her neck, Saphira roared toward the sky, sending the fire from her belly rippling out through her
mouth in a flickering sheet of flame. Nasuada staggered back from her while everyone else within earshot
froze and stared at Saphira. Rising to her feet, Saphira shook herself from head to tail, her weariness
forgotten, and spread her wings in preparation for flight.

Nasuada’s guards started toward her, but she waved them back. A patch of smoke swept over her, and
she pressed the underside of a sleeve over her nose, coughing.Your enthusiasm is commendable,
Saphira, but —

Is Eragon injured or hurt?Saphira asked. Alarm shot through her when Nasuada hesitated.

He’s as healthy as ever,Nasuada replied.However, there was an . . . incident . . . yesterday .

What kind of incident?

He and his guards were attacked.

Saphira held herself motionless while Nasuada recalled for her everything Eragon had said during their
conversation. Afterward, Saphira bared her teeth.Dûrgrimst Az Sweldn rak Anhûin should be grateful
I was not with Eragon; I would not have let them escape so easily for attempting to kill him .

With a small smile, Nasuada said,For that reason, it is probably better you were here .

Perhaps,Saphira admitted, and then released a puff of hot smoke and lashed her tail from side to side.It
does not surprise me, though. Always this happens; whenever Eragon and I part, someone attacks
him. It’s gotten so it makes my scales itch to let him out of my sight for more than a few hours .

He’s more than capable of defending himself.

True, but our enemies are not without skill either. Impatient, Saphira shifted her stance, raising her
wings even higher.Nasuada, I am eager to be gone. Is there anything else I should know?

No,said Nasuada.Fly swift and fly true, Saphira, but do not tarry when you arrive in Farthen Dûr.
As soon as you leave our camp, we shall have only a few days’ grace before the Empire realizes I
have not sent you and Eragon on a brief scouting trip. Galbatorix may or may not decide to strike
while you are away, but every hour you are absent will increase the possibility. Also, I would much
prefer to have the two of you with us when we attack Feinster. We could take the city without
you, but it will cost us many more lives. In short, the fate of the entire Varden depends upon your


speed.

We shall be as swift as the storm-driven wind,Saphira assured her.

Then Nasuada bade her farewell and retreated from the stone slab, whereupon Blödhgarm and the other
elves rushed to Saphira’s side and strapped her uncomfortable-leather-patch-Eragon-seat-saddle onto
her and filled the saddlebags with the food and equipment she would normally carry if embarking upon a
trip with Eragon. She would not need the supplies—she could not even access them herself—but for the
sake of appearances, she had to carry them. Once she was ready, Blödhgarm twisted his hand in front of
his chest in the elves’ gesture of respect and said in the ancient language, “Fare thee well, Saphira
Brightscales. May you and Eragon return to us unharmed.”

Fare thee well, Blödhgarm.

Saphira waited while the black-blue-wolf-hair-elf created a water-shadow-ghost of Eragon and the
apparition walked out of Eragon’s tent and climbed onto her back. She felt nothing as the insubstantial
wraith stepped from her left foreleg to the upper part of her leg and then to her shoulder. When
Blödhgarm nodded to her, indicating the not-Eragon was in place, she lifted her wings until they touched
overhead, then leaped forward, off the end of the stone slab.

As Saphira fell toward the gray tents below, she drove her wings downward, propelling herself away
from the break-bone-ground. She turned in the direction of Farthen Dûr and began climbing up to the
layer of thin-cold-air high above, where she hoped to find a steady wind to aid her on her journey.

She circled over the wooded riverbank where the Varden had chosen to stop for the night and wriggled
with a fierce joy. No longer did she have to wait while Eragon went off adventuring without her! No
longer would she have to spend the entire night flying over the same patches of land again and again! And
no longer would those who wished to hurt her partner-of-her-mind-and-heart be able to escape her
wrath! Opening her jaws, Saphira roared her joy and confidence to the world, daring whatever gods
there might be to challengeher, she who was the daughter of Iormûngr and Vervada, two of the greatest
dragons of their age.

When she was more than a mile above the Varden and a strong southwestern wind was pressing against
her, Saphira aligned herself with the torrent of air and allowed it to propel her forward, soaring over the
sun-drenched land below.

Casting her thoughts out before her, she said,I’m on my way, little one!

FOURSTROKES UPON THEDRUM

Eragon leaned forward, every muscle in his body tense, as the white-haired dwarf woman Hadfala, chief
of Dûrgrimst Ebardac, rose from the table where the clanmeet was gathered and uttered a short line in
her native language.


Murmuring into Eragon’s left ear, Hûndfast translated: “On behalf of mine clan, I vote for Grimstborith
Orik as our new king.”

Eragon released his pent-up breath.One . In order to become ruler of the dwarves, a clan chief had to
win a majority of the votes from the other chiefs. If none achieved that feat, then according to Dwarvish
law, the clan chief with the least votes would be eliminated from the competition and the meet could
adjourn for up to three days before voting again. The process would continue as needed until a clan chief
had achieved the necessary majority, at which point, the meet would swear fealty to him or her as their
new monarch. Considering how pressed for time the Varden were, Eragon fervently hoped that the
voting would not require more than one round, and if it did, that the dwarves would not insist upon taking
a recess of more than a few hours. If that happened, he thought he might break the stone table in the
center of the room out of frustration.

That Hadfala, the first clan chief to vote, had cast her lot with Orik boded well. Hadfala, as Eragon
knew, had been backing Gannel of Dûrgrimst Quan before the attempt on Eragon’s life. If Hadfala’s
allegiances had shifted, then it was also possible that the other member of Gannel’s cohort—namely,
Grimstborith Ûndin—might also give his vote to Orik.

Next, Gáldhiem of Dûrgrimst Feldûnost rose from the table, although he was so short, he was taller
sitting than he was standing. “On behalf of mine clan,” he declared, “I vote for Grimstborith Nado as our
new king.”

Turning his head to one side, Orik looked back at Eragon and said to him in an undertone, “Well, that
was as we expected.”

Eragon nodded and glanced over at Nado. The round-faced dwarf was stroking the end of his yellow
beard, appearing pleased with himself.

Then Manndrâth of Dûrgrimst Ledwonnû said, “On behalf of mine clan, I vote for Grimstborith Orik as
our new king.” Orik nodded toward him in thanks, and Manndrâth nodded in return, the tip of his long
nose bobbing.

As Manndrâth sat, Eragon and everyone else looked at Gannel, and the room became so quiet, Eragon
could not even hear the dwarves breathing. As chief of the religious clan, the Quan, and the high priest of
Gûntera, king of the dwarf gods, Gannel carried enormous influence among his race; however he chose,
so the crown was likely to go.

“On behalf of mine clan,” Gannel said, “I vote for Grimstborith Nado as our new king.”

A wave of soft exclamations broke out among the dwarves watching from the perimeter of the circular
room, and Nado’s pleased expression broadened. Clenching his interlaced hands, Eragon silently cursed.

“Don’t give up hope yet, lad,” Orik muttered. “We may yet pull through. It’s happened before that the
grimstborith of the Quan has lost the vote.”

“How often does it happen, though?” whispered Eragon.

“Often enough.”

“When did itlast happen?”


Orik shifted and glanced away. “Eight hundred and twenty-four years ago, when Queen—”

He fell silent as Ûndin of Dûrgrimst Ragni Hefthyn proclaimed, “On behalf of mine clan, I vote for
Grimstborith Nado as our new king.”

Orik crossed his arms. Eragon could only see his face from the side, but it was obvious that Orik was
scowling.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Eragon stared at the patterned floor, counting the votes that had been cast,
as well as those that remained, trying to determine if Orik could still win the election. Even in the best of
circumstances, it would be a close thing. Eragon tightened his grip, his fingernails digging into the back of
his hands.

Thordris of Dûrgrimst Nagra stood and draped her long, thick braid over one arm. “On behalf of mine
clan, I vote for Grimstborith Orik as our new king.”

“That makes three to three,” Eragon said in a low voice. Orik nodded.

It was Nado’s turn to speak then. Smoothing his beard with the flat of a hand, the chief of Dûrgrimst
Knurlcarathn smiled at the assembly, a predatory gleam in his eyes. “One behalf of mine clan, I vote for
myself as our new king. If you will have me, I promise to rid our country of the outlanders who have
polluted it, and I promise to devote our gold and warriors to protecting our own people, and not the
necks of elves, humans, andUrgals . This I swear upon mine family’s honor.”

“Four to three,” Eragon noted.

“Aye,” said Orik. “I suppose it would have been too much to ask for Nado to vote for anyone but
himself.”

Setting aside his knife and wood, Freowin of Dûrgrimst Gedthrall heaved his bulk halfway out of his
chair and, keeping his gaze angled downward, said in his whispering baritone, “On behalf of mine clan, I
vote for Grimstborith Nado as our new king.” Then he lowered himself back into his seat and resumed
carving his raven, ignoring the stir of astonishment that swept through the room.

Nado’s expression changed from pleased to smug.

“Barzûl,” growled Orik, his scowl deepening. His chair creaked as he pressed his forearms down against
the armrests, the tendons in his hands rigid with strain. “That false-faced traitor. He promised his vote to
me!”

Eragon’s stomach sank. “Why would he betray you?”

“He visits Sindri’s temple twice a day. I should have known he would not go against Gannel’s wishes.
Bah! Gannel’s been playing me this whole time. I—” At that moment, the attention of the clanmeet turned
to Orik. Concealing his anger, Orik got to his feet and looked around the table at each of the other clan
chiefs, and in his own language, he said, “On behalf of mine clan, I vote for myself as our new king. If you
will have me, I promise to bring our people gold and glory and the freedom to live above the ground
without fear of Galbatorix destroying our homes. This I swear upon mine family’s honor.”

“Five to four,” Eragon said to Orik as he returned to his seat. “And not in our favor.”


Orik grunted. “I can count, Eragon.”

Eragon rested his elbows on his knees, his eyes darting from one dwarf to another. The desire to act
gnawed at him. How, he knew not, but with so much at stake, he felt that he ought to find a way to
ensure Orik would become king and, thus, that the dwarves would continue to aid the Varden in their
struggle against the Empire. For all he tried, however, Eragon could think of nothing to do but sit and
wait.

The next dwarf to rise was Havard of Dûrgrimst Fanghur. With his chin tucked against his breastbone,
Havard pushed out his lips and tapped the table with the two fingers he still had on his right hand,
appearing thoughtful. Eragon inched forward on his seat, his heart pounding.Will he uphold his bargain
with Orik? Eragon wondered.

Havard tapped the table once more, then slapped the stone with the flat of his hand. Lifting his chin, he
said, “On behalf of mine clan, I vote for Grimstborith Orik as our new king.”

It gave Eragon immense satisfaction to watch as Nado’s eyes widened, and then the dwarf gnashed his
teeth together, a muscle in his cheek twitching. “Ha!” muttered Orik. “That put a burr in his beard.”

The only two clan chiefs who had yet to vote were Hreidamar and Íorûnn. Hreidamar, the compact,
muscular grimstborith of the Urzhad, appeared uneasy with the situation, while Íorûnn—she of Dûrgrimst
Vrenshrrgn, the War Wolves—traced the crescent-shaped scar on her left cheekbone with the tip of a
pointed fingernail and smiled like a self-satisfied cat.

Eragon held his breath as he waited to hear what the two of them would say.If Íorûnn votes for
herself, he thought,and if Hreidamar is still loyal to her, then the election will have to proceed to a
second round. There’s no reason for her to do that, however, other than to delay events, and so
far as I know, she would not profit from a delay. She cannot hope to become queen at this point;
her name would be eliminated from consideration before the beginning of the second round, and I
doubt she would be so foolish as to squander the power she has now merely so she can boast to
her grandchildren that she was once a candidate for the throne. But if Hreidamar does part ways
with her, then the vote will remain tied and we will continue on to a second round regardless. . . .
Argh! If only I could scry into the future! What if Orik loses? Should I seize control of the clanmeet
then? I could seal the chamber so no one could enter or leave, and then . . . But no, that would be
—

Íorûnn interrupted Eragon’s thoughts by nodding at Hreidamar and then directing her heavy-lidded gaze
toward Eragon, which made him feel as if he were a prize ox she was examining. The rings of his mail
hauberk clinking, Hreidamar stood upright and said, “On behalf of mine clan, I vote for Grimstborith Orik
as our new king.”

Eragon’s throat constricted.

Her red lips curving with amusement, Íorûnn rose from her chair with a sinuous motion and in a low,
husky voice said, “It seems it falls to me to decide the outcome of today’s meet. I have listened most
carefully to your arguments, Nado, and your arguments, Orik. While you have both made points I agree
with upon a wide range of subjects, the most important issue we must decide is whether to commit
ourselves to the Varden’s campaign against the Empire. If theirs were merely a war between rival clans, it
would not matter to me which side won, and I certainly would not consider sacrificing our warriors for
the benefit of outlanders. However, this is not the case. Far from it. If Galbatorix emerges triumphant
from this war, not even the Beor Mountains will protect us from his wrath. If our realm is to survive, we


must see Galbatorix overthrown. Moreover, it strikes me that hiding in caves and tunnels while others
decide the fate of Alagaësia is unbecoming for a race as old and as powerful as ours. When the
chronicles of this age are written, shall they say we fought alongside the humans and the elves, as the
heroes of old, or that we sat cowering in our halls like frightened peasants while a battle raged outsideour doors? I, for one, know mine answer.” Íorûnn tossed back her hair, then said, “On behalf of mine
clan, I vote for Grimstborith Orik as our new king!”

The eldest of the five readers-of-law who stood against the circular wall stepped forward and struck the
end of his polished staff against the stone floor and proclaimed, “All hail King Orik, the forty-third king of
Tronjheim, Farthen Dûr, and every knurla above and below the Beor Mountains!”

“All hail King Orik!” the clanmeet roared, rising to their feet with a loud rustle of clothes and armor. His
head swimming, Eragon did likewise, aware that he was now in the presence of royalty. He glanced at
Nado, but the dwarf’s face was a dead-eyed mask.

The white-bearded reader-of-law struck his staff against the floor again. “Let the scribes record at once
the clanmeet’s decision, and let the news be spread to every person throughout the realm. Heralds!
Inform the mages with their scrying mirrors of what has transpired here today, and then seek out the
wardens of the mountain and tell them, ‘Four beats upon the drum. Four beats, and swing your mallets as
you have never swung them before in all your lives, for we have a new king. Four beats of such strength,
Farthen Dûr itself shall ring with the news.’ Tell them this, I charge you. Go!”

After the heralds departed, Orik pushed himself out of his chair and stood looking at the dwarves
around him. His expression, to Eragon, seemed somewhat dazed, as if he had not actually expected to
win the crown. “For this great responsibility,” he said, “I thank you.” He paused, then continued, “Mine
only thought now is for the betterment of our nation, and I shall pursue that goal without faltering until the
day I return to the stone.”

Then the clan chiefs came forward, one by one, and they knelt before Orik and swore their fealty to him
as his loyal subjects. When the time came for Nado to pledge himself, the dwarf displayed nothing of his
sentiments but merely recited the phrases of the oath without inflection, the words dropping from his
mouth like bars of lead. A palpable sense of relief rippled through the clanmeet once he had finished.

Upon the conclusion of the oath giving, Orik decreed that his coronation would take place the following
morning, and then he and his attendants retired to an adjacent chamber. There Eragon looked at Orik,
and Orik looked at Eragon, and neither made a sound until a broad smile appeared on Orik’s face and
he broke out laughing, his cheeks turning red. Laughing with him, Eragon grasped him by a forearm and
embraced him. Orik’s guards and advisers gathered around them, clapping Orik on the shoulder and
congratulating him with hearty exclamations.

Eragon released Orik, saying, “I didn’t think Íorûnn would side with us.”

“Aye. I’m glad she did, but it complicates matters, it does.” Orik grimaced. “I suppose I’ll have to
reward her for her assistance with a place within my council, at the very least.”

“It may be for the best!” said Eragon, straining to make himself heard over the commotion. “If the
Vrenshrrgn are equal to their name, we shall have great need of them before we reach the gates of
Urû’baen.”

Orik started to answer, but then a long, low note of portentous volume reverberated throughout the floor
and the ceiling and the air of the room, causing Eragon’s bones to vibrate with its force. “Listen!” cried


Orik, and raised a hand. The group fell silent.

Four times in total the bass note sounded, shaking the room with each repetition, as if a giant were
pounding against the side of Tronjheim. Afterward, Orik said, “I never thought to hear the Drums of
Derva announce mine kingship.”

“How large are the drums?” asked Eragon, awed.

“Close to fifty feet across, if memory serves.”

It occurred to Eragon that although the dwarves were the shortest of the races, they built the biggest
structures in Alagaësia, which seemed odd to him.Perhaps, he thought,by making such enormous
objects, they do not feel so small themselves. He almost mentioned his theory to Orik but at the last
moment decided that it might offend him, so he held his tongue.

Closing ranks around him, Orik’s attendants began to consult with him in Dwarvish, often speaking over
one another in a loud tangle of voices, and Eragon, who had been about to ask Orik another question,
found himself relegated to a corner. He tried to wait patiently for a lull in the conversation, but after a few
minutes, it became plain the dwarves were not about to stop plying Orik with questions and advice, for
such, he assumed, was the nature of their discourse.

Therefore, Eragon said, “Orik Könungr,” and he imbued the ancient language word forking with energy,
that it would capture the attention of everyone present. The room fell silent, and Orik looked at Eragon
and lifted an eyebrow. “Your Majesty, may I have your permission to withdraw? There is a certain . . .
matter I would like to attend to, if it is not already too late.”

Comprehension brightened Orik’s brown eyes. “By all means, make haste! But you need not call me
majesty, Eragon, norsire, nor by any other title. We are friends and foster brothers, after all.”

“We are, Your Majesty,” Eragon replied, “but for the time being, I believe it is only proper I should
observe the same courtesies as everyone else. You are the king of your race now, and my own king as
well, seeing as how I am a member of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, and that is not something I can ignore.”

Orik studied him for a moment, as if from a great distance, and then nodded and said, “As you wish,
Shadeslayer.”

Eragon bowed and left the room. Accompanied by his four guards, he bounded through the tunnels and
up the stairs that led to the ground floor of Tronjheim. Once they arrived at the southern branch of the
four main hallways that divided the city-mountain, Eragon turned to Thrand, the captain of his guards, and
said, “I mean to run the rest of the way. Since you won’t be able to keep pace with me, I suggest you
stop when you reach the south gate of Tronjheim and wait there for my return.”

Thrand said, “Argetlam, please, you should not go alone. Cannot I convince you to slow yourself so we
can accompany you? We may not be as fleet as the elves, but we can run from sunup to sundown, and in
full armor too.”

“I appreciate your concern,” said Eragon, “but I would not tarry a minute longer, even if I knew there
were assassins hiding behind every pillar. Farewell!”

And with that, he dashed down the broad hallway, dodging around the dwarves who blocked his way.


REUNION

It was nearly a mile from where Eragon started to the south gate of Tronjheim. He covered the distance
in only a few minutes, his footsteps loud upon the stone floor. As he ran, he caught glimpses of the rich
tapestries that hung above the arched entrances to the corridors on either side and of the grotesque
statues of beasts and monsters that lurked between the pillars of blood-red jasper that lined the vaulted
avenue. The four-story-high thoroughfare was so large, Eragon had little difficulty evading the dwarves
who populated it, although at one point, a line of Knurlcarathn stepped in front of him, and he had no
choice but to leap over the dwarves, who ducked, uttering startled exclamations. Eragon savored their
looks of astonishment as he sailed over them.

With an easy, loping stride, Eragon ran underneath the massive timber gate that protected the southern
entrance to the city-mountain, hearing the guards cry, “Hail, Argetlam!” as he flew past. Twenty yards
beyond, for the gate was recessed into the base of Tronjheim, he sped between the pair of giant gold
griffins that stared with sightless eyes toward the horizon and then emerged into the open.

The air was cool and moist and smelled like fresh-fallen rain. Though it was morning, gray twilight
enveloped the flat disk of land that surrounded Tronjheim, land upon which no grass grew, only moss and
lichen and the occasional patch of pungent toadstools. Above, Farthen Dûr rose over ten miles to a
narrow opening, through which pale, indirect light entered the immense crater. Eragon had difficulty
grasping the scale of the mountain when he gazed upward.

As he ran, he listened to the monotonous pattern of his breathing and to his light, quick footsteps. He
was alone, save for a curious bat that swooped overhead, emitting shrill squeaks. The tranquil mood that
permeated the hollow mountain comforted him, freed him of his usual worries.

He followed the cobblestone path that extended from Tronjheim’s south gate all the way to the two
black thirty-foot-high doors set into the southern base of Farthen Dûr. As he drew to a halt, a pair of
dwarves emerged from hidden guardrooms and hurried to open the doors, revealing the seemingly
endless tunnel beyond.

Eragon continued forward. Marble pillars studded with rubies and amethysts lined the first fifty feet of
the tunnel. Past them the tunnel was bare and desolate, the smooth walls broken only by a single
flameless lantern every twenty yards and at infrequent intervals by a closed gate or door.I wonder where
they lead, Eragon thought. Then he imagined the miles of stone pressing down on him from overhead,
and for a moment, the tunnel seemed unbearably oppressive. He quickly pushed the image away.

Halfway through the tunnel, Eragon felt her.

“Saphira!”he shouted, with both his mind and his voice, her name echoing off the stone walls with the
force of a dozen yells.

Eragon!An instant later, the faint thunder of a distant roar rolled toward him from the other end of the
tunnel.

Redoubling his speed, Eragon opened his mind to Saphira, removing every barrier around who he was,


so that they might join together without reservation. Like a flood of warm water, her consciousness
rushed into him, even as his rushed into her. Eragon gasped and tripped and nearly fell. They enveloped
each other within the folds of their thoughts, holding each other with an intimacy no physical embrace
could replicate, allowing their identities to merge once again. Their greatest comfort was a simple one:
they were no longer alone. To know that you were with one who cared for you, and who understood
every fiber of your being, and who would not abandon you in even the most desperate of circumstances,
that was the most precious relationship a person could have, and both Eragon and Saphira cherished it.

It was not long before Eragon sighted Saphira hurrying toward him as swiftly as she could without
banging her head on the ceiling or scraping her wings against the walls. Her claws screeched on the stone
floor as she slid to a stop in front of Eragon, fierce, sparkling, glorious.

Crying out with joy, Eragon leaped upward and, ignoring her sharp scales, wrapped his arms around her
neck and hugged her as tightly as he could, his feet dangling several inches in the air.Little one, said
Saphira, her tone warm. She lowered him to the floor, then snorted and said,Little one, unless you wish
to choke me, you should loosen your arms.

Sorry.Grinning, he stepped back, then laughed and pressed his forehead against her snout and began to
scratch behind both corners of her jaw.

Saphira’s low humming filled the tunnel.

You’re tired,he said.

I have never flown so far so fast. I stopped only once after I left the Varden, and I would not have
stopped at all except I became too thirsty to continue.

Do you mean you haven’t slept or eaten for three days?

She blinked at him, concealing her brilliant sapphire eyes for an instant.

You must be starving!Eragon exclaimed, worried. He looked her over for signs of injury. To his relief,
he found none.

Iamtired, she admitted,but not hungry. Not yet. Once I have rested, then I will need to eat. Right
now, I do not think I could stomach so much as a rabbit. . . . The earth is unsteady beneath me; I
feel as if I am still flying .

If they had not been apart for so long, Eragon might have reproached her for being reckless, but as it
was, he was touched and grateful that she had pushed herself.Thank you, he said.I would have hated
to wait another day for us to be together again .

As would have I. She closed her eyes and pressed her head against his hands as he continued to
scratch behind her jaw.Besides, I could hardly be late for the coronation, now could I? Who did the
clanmeet —

Before she could finish the question, Eragon sent her an image of Orik.

Ah,she sighed, her satisfaction flowing through him.He will make a fine king .

I hope so.


Is the star sapphire ready for me to mend?

If the dwarves have not already finished piecing it together, I’m sure they will have by tomorrow.

That is good. Cracking open an eyelid, she fixed him with her piercing gaze.Nasuada told me of what

Az Sweldn rak Anhûin attempted. Always you get into trouble when I am not with you.

His smile widened.And when you are?

I eat the trouble before it eats you.

So you say. What about when the Urgals ambushed us by Gil’ead and took me captive?

A plume of smoke escaped from between Saphira’s fangs.That does not count. I was smaller then,

and not as experienced. It would not happen now. And you are not as helpless as you once were .

I’ve never been helpless,he protested.I just have powerful enemies .

For some reason, Saphira found his last statement enormously amusing; she started laughing deep within
her chest, and soon Eragon was laughing as well. Neither of them was able to stop until Eragon was lying
on his back, gasping for air, and Saphira was struggling to contain the darts of flame that kept shooting
out of her nostrils. Then Saphira made a sound Eragon had never heard before, a strange jumping growl,
and he noticed the oddest feeling through their connection.

Saphira made the sound again, then shook her head, as if trying to rid herself of a swarm of flies.Oh

dear, she said.I seem to have the hiccups .

Eragon’s mouth dropped open. He held that pose for a moment, then he doubled over, laughing so hard,
tears streamed down his face. Every time he was about to recover, Saphira would hiccup, bobbing her
head forward like a stork, and he would go off into convulsions again. At last he plugged his ears with his
fingers and stared at the ceiling and recited the true names of every metal and stone he could remember.

When he finished, he took a deep breath and stood.

Better?Saphira asked. Her shoulders shook as another hiccup racked her.

Eragon bit his tongue.Better. . . . Come on, let’s go to Tronjheim. You should have some water.

That might help. And then you should sleep.

Cannot you cure hiccups with a spell?

Maybe. Probably. But neither Brom nor Oromis taught me how. Saphira grunted her understanding,

and a hiccup followed an instant later. Biting his tongue even harder, Eragon stared at the tips of his

boots.Shall we?

Saphira extended her right foreleg in invitation. Eragon eagerly climbed up onto her back and settled into
the saddle at the base of her neck.

Together, they continued through the tunnel toward Tronjheim, both of them happy, and both of them
sharing in each other’s happiness.


ASCENSION

The Drums of Derva sounded, summoning the dwarves of Tronjheim to witness the coronation of their
new king.

“Normally,” Orik had told Eragon the previous night, “when the clanmeet elects a king or queen, the
knurla begins their rule at once, but we do not hold the coronation for at least three months, so that all
who wish to attend the ceremony may have time to place their affairs in order and to travel to Farthen
Dûr from even the most distant parts of our realm. It is not often we crown a monarch, so when we do, it
is our custom to make much of the event, with weeks of feasting and song, and with games of wit and
strength and contests of skill at forging, carving, and other forms of art. . . . However, these are hardly
normal times.”

Eragon stood next to Saphira just outside the central chamber of Tronjheim, listening to the pounding of
the giant drums. On either side of the mile-long hall, hundreds of dwarves crowded the archways of each
level, peering at Eragon and Saphira with dark gleaming eyes.

Saphira’s barbed tongue rasped against her scales as she licked her chops, which she had been doing
ever since she finished devouring five full-grown sheep earlier that morning. Then she lifted her left foreleg
and rubbed her muzzle against it. The smell of burnt wool clung to her.

Stop fidgeting,said Eragon.They’re looking at us .

A soft growl emanated from Saphira.I can’t help it. I have wool stuck between my teeth. Now I
remember why I hate eating sheep. Horrible, fluffy things that give me hair balls and indigestion .

I’ll help you clean your teeth when we are finished here. Just hold still until then.

Hmph.

Did Blödhgarm pack any fireweed in the saddlebags? That would settle your stomach.

I don’t know.

Mmm. Eragon thought for a moment.If not, I’ll ask Orik if the dwarves have any stored in
Tronjheim. We ought to—

He cut himself off as the final note from the drums faded into silence. The crowd shifted, and he heard
the soft rustle of clothes and the occasional phrase of murmured Dwarvish.

A fanfare of dozens of trumpets rang forth, filling the city-mountain with its rousing call, and somewhere
a choir of dwarves began to chant. The music made Eragon’s scalp tingle and prickle and his blood flow
faster, as if he were about to embark upon a hunt. Saphira whipped her tail from side to side, and he
knew she felt the same.


Here we go,he thought.

As one, he and Saphira advanced into the central chamber of the city-mountain and took their place
among the ring of clan chiefs, guild leaders, and other notables who girded the vast, towering room. In
the center of the chamber rested the reconstructed star sapphire, encased within a framework of wooden
scaffolding. An hour before the coronation, Skeg had sent a message to Eragon and Saphira, telling them
that he and his team of artisans had just finished fitting together the last fragments of the gem and that
Isidar Mithrim was ready for Saphira to make whole once more.

The black granite throne of the dwarves had been carried from its customary resting place underneath
Tronjheim and placed upon a raised dais next to the star sapphire, facing the eastern branch of the four
main hallways that divided Tronjheim, east because it was the direction of the rising sun and that
symbolized the dawning of a new age. Thousands of dwarf warriors clad in burnished mail armor stood
at attention in two large blocks before the throne, as well as in double rows along either side of the
eastern hallway all the way to Tronjheim’s eastern gate, a mile away. Many of the warriors carried spears
mounted with pennants that bore curious designs. Hvedra, Orik’s wife, stood at the forefront of the
congregation; after the clanmeet had banished Grimstborith Vermûnd, Orik had sent for her in
anticipation of becoming king. She had arrived in Tronjheim only that morning.

For half an hour, the trumpets played and the unseen choir sang as, step by deliberate step, Orik walked
from the eastern gate to the center of Tronjheim. His beard was brushed and curled, and he wore
buskins of the finest polished leather with silver spurs mounted upon the heels, gray wool leggings, a shirt
of purple silk that shimmered in the lantern light, and, over his shirt, a mail hauberk, each link of which
was wrought of pure white gold. A long ermine-trimmed cloak embroidered with the insignia of
Dûrgrimst Ingeitum flowed over Orik’s shoulders and onto the floor behind him. Volund, the war hammer
that Korgan, first king of the dwarves, had forged, hung at Orik’s waist from a wide, ruby-studded belt.
Because of his lavish raiment and his magnificent armor, Orik seemed to glow from within; to look at him
dazzled Eragon’s eyes.

Twelve dwarf children followed Orik, six male and six female, or so Eragon assumed based upon the cut
of their hair. The children were garbed in tunics of red and brown and gold, and they each carried in their
cupped hands a polished orb six inches across, every orb a different species of stone.

As Orik entered the center of the city-mountain, the chamber dimmed and a pattern of dappled shadows
appeared on everything within. Confused, Eragon glanced upward and was astonished to behold pink
rose petals drifting downward from the top of Tronjheim. Like soft, thick snowflakes, the velvety petals
settled upon the heads and shoulders of those in attendance, and also upon the floor, suffusing the air with
their sweet fragrance.

The trumpets and the choir fell silent as Orik knelt on one knee before the black throne and bowed his
head. Behind him, the twelve children stopped and stood motionless.

Eragon placed his hand on Saphira’s warm side, sharing his concern and excitement with her. He had no
idea what would happen next, for Orik had refused to describe the ceremony past that point.

Then Gannel, clan chief of Dûrgrimst Quan, stepped forward, breaking the ring of people around the
chamber, and walked to stand on the right-hand side of the throne. The heavy-shouldered dwarf was
appareled in sumptuous red robes, the borders of which gleamed with runes outlined with metal thread.
In one hand, Gannel bore a tall staff with a clear, pointed crystal mounted on the top.

Lifting the staff over his head with both hands, Gannel brought it down upon the stone floor with a


resounding crack. “Hwatum il skilfz gerdûmn!” he exclaimed. He continued to speak in the tongue of the
dwarves for some minutes, and Eragon listened without comprehending, for his translator was not with
him. But then the tenor of Gannel’s voice shifted, and Eragon recognized his words as belonging to the
ancient language, and he realized Gannel was weaving a spell, although it was a spell unlike any Eragon
was familiar with. Instead of directing the incantation at an object or an element of the world around
them, the priest said, in the language of mystery and power: “Gûntera, creator of the heavens and the
earth and the boundless sea, hear now the cry of your faithful servant! We thank you for your
magnanimity. Our race flourishes. This and every year, we have offered to you the finest rams of our
flocks and also flagons of spiced mead and a portion of our harvests of fruits and vegetables and grain.
Your temples are the richest in the land, and none may hope to compete with the glory that is yours. O
mighty Gûntera, king of the gods, hear now mine plea and grant me this request: time is for us to name a
mortal ruler of our earthly affairs. Will you deign to bestow your blessing upon Orik, Thrifk’s son, and to
crown him in the tradition of his predecessors?”

At first Eragon thought Gannel’s request would go unanswered, for he felt no surge of magic from the
dwarf when he finished speaking. However, Saphira nudged him then and said,Look .

Eragon followed her gaze and, thirty feet above, saw a disturbance among the tumbling petals: a gap, a
void where the petals would not fall, as if an invisible object occupied the space. The disturbance spread,
extending all the way to the floor, and the void outlined by the petals assumed the shape of a creature
with arms and legs like a dwarf or a man or an elf or an Urgal, but of different proportions than any race
Eragon had knowledge of; the head was nearly the width of the shoulders, the massive arms hung below
the knees, and while the torso was bulky, the legs were short and crooked.

Thin, needle-sharp rays of watery light radiated outward from the shape, and there appeared the
nebulous image of a gigantic, shaggy-haired male figure of the form the petals had traced. The god, if god
he was, wore nothing but a knotted loincloth. His face was dark and heavy and seemed to contain equal
amounts of cruelty and kindness, as if he might veer between the extremes of both without warning.

As he noticed those details, Eragon also became aware of the presence of a strange, far-reaching
consciousness within the chamber, a consciousness of unreadable thoughts and unfathomable depths, a
consciousness that flashed and growled and billowed in unexpected directions, like a summer
thunderstorm. Eragon quickly sequestered his mind from the touch of the other. His skin prickled, and a
cold shiver ran down him. He did not know what he had felt, but fear gripped him, and he looked at
Saphira for comfort. She was staring at the figure, her blue cat eyes sparkling with unusual intensity.

With a single motion, the dwarves sank to their knees.

The god spoke then, and his voice sounded like the grinding of boulders and the sweep of the wind over
barren mountain peaks and the slap of waves against a stony shore. He spoke in Dwarvish, and though
Eragon knew not what was said, he shrank from the power of the god’s speech. Three times the god
questioned Orik, and three times Orik replied, his own voice faint in comparison. Apparently pleased
with Orik’s answers, the apparition extended his glowing arms and placed his forefingers on either side of
Orik’s bare head.

The air between the god’s fingers rippled, and upon Orik’s brow materialized the gem-encrusted helm of
gold that Hrothgar had worn. The god slapped his belly and uttered a booming chuckle and then faded
into oblivion. The rose petals resumed their fall uninterrupted.

“Ûn qroth Gûntera!” Gannel proclaimed. Loud and brassy, the trumpets blared.


Rising from his knee, Orik ascended the dais, turned to face the assembly, and then he sank into the
hard black throne.

“Nal, Grimstnzborith Orik!” the dwarves shouted, and struck their shields with their axes and their
spears and stamped the floor with their feet. “Nal, Grimstnzborith Orik! Nal, Grimstnzborith Orik!”

“All hail King Orik!” cried Eragon. Arching her neck, Saphira roared her tribute and released a jet of
flame over the heads of the dwarves, incinerating a swath of rose petals. Eragon’s eyes watered as a
blast of heat washed over him.

Then Gannel knelt before Orik and spoke some more in Dwarvish. When he finished, Orik touched him
upon the crown of his head, and then Gannel returned to his place at the edge of the chamber. Nado
approached the throne and said many of the same things, and after him, so did Manndrâth and Hadfala
and all the other clan chiefs, with the sole exception of Grimstborith Vermûnd, who had been banned
from the coronation.

They must be pledging themselves to Orik’s service,Eragon said to Saphira.

Did not they already give him their word?

Aye, but not in public. Eragon watched Thordris walk toward the throne before saying,Saphira, what
do you think we just saw? Could that really have been Gûntera, or was it an illusion? His mind
seemed real enough, and I do not know how one might fake that, but . . .

It may have been an illusion,she said.The dwarves’ gods have never helped them upon the field of
battle, nor in any other endeavor I am aware of. Nor do I believe that a true god would come
running at Gannel’s summons like a trained hound. I would not, and should not a god be greater
than a dragon? . . . But then, there are many inexplicable things in Alagaësia. It is possible we
have seen a shade from a long-forgotten age, a pale remnant of what once was that continues to
haunt the land, longing for the return of its power. Who can know for sure?

Once the final clan chief had presented himself to Orik, the guild leaders did the same, and then Orik
gestured toward Eragon. With a slow, measured pace, Eragon walked forward between the rows of
dwarf warriors until he reached the base of the throne, where he knelt and, as a member of Dûrgrimst
Ingeitum, acknowledged Orik as his king and swore to serve and protect him. Then, acting as Nasuada’s
emissary, Eragon congratulated Orik on behalf of Nasuada and the Varden and promised him the
Varden’s friendship.

Others went to speak with Orik as Eragon withdrew, a seemingly endless train of dwarves eager to
demonstrate their loyalty to their new king.

The procession continued for hours, and then the gift giving began. Each of the dwarves brought Orik an
offering from their clan or their guild: a goblet of gold filled to the brim with rubies and diamonds, a
corselet of enchanted mail that no blade could pierce, a tapestry twenty feet long woven of the soft wool
the dwarves combed from the beards of the Feldûnost goats, a tablet of agate inscribed with the names
of every one of Orik’s ancestors, a curved dagger ground from the tooth of a dragon, and many other
treasures. In exchange, Orik presented the dwarves with rings as tokens of his gratitude.

Eragon and Saphira were the last to go before Orik. Once again kneeling at the base of the dais, Eragon
drew from his tunic the gold armband he had begged from the dwarves the previous night. He held it up
toward Orik, saying, “Here is my gift, King Orik. I did not make the armlet, but I have set on it spells to


protect you. So long as you wear it, you need fear no poison. If an assassin tries to hit or stab you or
throw any kind of object at you, the weapon will miss. The band will even shield you from most hostile
magic. And it has other properties as well, which you may find of use if your life is in danger.”

Inclining his head, Orik accepted the band from Eragon and said, “Your gift is most appreciated, Eragon
Shadeslayer.” In full view of everyone, Orik slid the band onto his left arm.

Saphira spoke next, projecting her thoughts to everyone who was watching:My gift is this, Orik . She
walked past the throne, her claws clacking against the floor, and reared up and placed her forefeet upon
the edge of the scaffolding around the star sapphire. The stout wood beams creaked under her weight,
but held. Minutes passed and nothing happened, but Saphira remained where she was, gazing at the huge
gemstone.

The dwarves watched her, never blinking, hardly breathing.

Are you sure you can do this?Eragon asked, reluctant to break her concentration.

I don’t know. The few times I used magic before, I didn’t pause to consider whether I was casting
a spell or not. I just willed the world to change, and it did. It was not a deliberate process. . . . I
suppose I will have to wait until the moment feels right for me to mend Isidar Mithrim.

Let me help. Let me work a spell through you.

No, little one. This is my task, not yours.

A single voice, low and clear, wafted across the chamber, singing a slow, wistful melody. One by one,
the other members of the hidden dwarf choir joined in the song, filling Tronjheim with the plaintive beauty
of their music. Eragon was going to ask for them to be silent, but Saphira said,It’s all right. Leave them
alone.

Although he did not understand what the choir sang, Eragon could tell from the tone of the music that it
was a lamentation for things that had been and were no more, such as the star sapphire. As the song built
toward its conclusion, he found himself thinking of his lost life in Palancar Valley, and tears welled in his
eyes.

To his surprise, he sensed a similar strain of pensive melancholy from Saphira. Neither sorrow nor regret
was a normal part of her personality, so he wondered at it and would have questioned her, except that he
also sensed a stirring of something deep within her, like the awakening of some ancient part of her being.

The song ended on a long, wavering note, and as it faded into oblivion, a surge of energy rushed through
Saphira—so much energy, Eragon gasped at its magnitude—and she bent and touched the star sapphire
with the tip of her snout. The branching cracks within the giant gemstone flared bright as bolts of lightning,
and then the scaffolding shattered and fell to the floor, revealing Isidar Mithrim whole and sound again.

But not quite the same. The color of the jewel was a deeper, richer shade of red than before, and the
innermost petals of the rose were shot through with streaks of dusky gold.

The dwarves stared in wonder at Isidar Mithrim. Then they leaped to their feet, cheering and applauding
Saphira with such enthusiasm, it sounded like the pounding roar of a waterfall. She dipped her head
toward the crowd and then walked back to Eragon, crushing rose petals under her feet.Thank you, she
said to him.


For what?

For helping me. It was your emotions that showed me the way. Without them, I might have
stayed there for weeks before I felt inspired to fix Isidar Mithrim.

Lifting his arms, Orik quieted the crowd, and then he said, “On behalf of our entire race, I thank you for
your gift, Saphira. Today you have restored the pride of our realm, and we shall not forget your deed.
Let it not be said that knurlan are an ungrateful lot; from now until the end of time, your name shall be
recited at the winter festivals, along with the lists of Master Makers, and when Isidar Mithrim is returned
to its setting at the peak of Tronjheim, your name will be engraved in the collar surrounding the Star
Rose, along with that of Dûrok Ornthrond, who first gave shape to the jewel.”

To both Eragon and Saphira, Orik said, “Once again you have demonstrated your friendship to mine
people. It pleases me that, by your actions, you have vindicated my foster father’s decision to adopt you
into Dûrgrimst Ingeitum.”

After the conclusion of the multitude of rituals that followed the coronation, and after Eragon had helped
remove the wool caught between Saphira’s teeth—a slippery, slimy, smelly task that left him needing a
bath—the two of them attended the banquet held in Orik’s honor. The feasting was loud and boisterous
and lasted long into the night. Jugglers and acrobats entertained the guests, as well as a troupe of actors
who performed a play calledAz Sartosvrenht rak Balmung, Grimstnzborith rak Kvisagûr, which
Hûndfast told Eragon meantThe Saga of King Balmung of Kvisagûr .

When the celebrations had died down some and most of the dwarves were deep in their cups, Eragon
leaned toward Orik, who sat at the head of the stone table, and said, “Your Majesty.”

Orik waved a hand. “I won’t have you calling meYour Majesty all the time, Eragon. It won’t do. Unless
the occasion demands it, use mine name as you always have. That’s an order.” He reached for his goblet
but missed and nearly knocked the container over. He laughed.

Smiling, Eragon said, “Orik, I have to ask, Was that really Gûntera who crowned you?”

Orik’s chin sank to his chest, and he fingered the stem of the goblet, his expression growing serious. “It
was as close to Gûntera as we are ever likely to see on this earth. Does that answer your question,
Eragon?”

“I . . . I think so. Does he always answer when called upon? Has he ever refused to crown one of your
rulers?”

The gap between Orik’s eyebrows narrowed. “Have you ever heard of the Heretic Kings and the
Heretic Queens before?”

Eragon shook his head.

“They are knurlan who failed to secure Gûntera’s blessing as our next ruler and yet who nevertheless
insisted upon taking the throne.” Orik’s mouth twisted. “Without exception, their reigns were short and
unhappy ones.”

A band seemed to tighten around Eragon’s chest. “So, even though the clanmeet elected you their


leader, if Gûntera had failed to crown you, you would not be king now.”

“That or I would be king of a nation at war with itself.” Orik shrugged. “I was not overly worried about
the possibility. With the Varden in the midst of invading the Empire, only a madman would risk tearing
our country apart merely to deny me the throne, and whileGûntera is many things, he is not mad.”

“But you did not know for certain,” said Eragon.

Orik shook his head. “Not until he placed the helm upon mine head.”

WORDS OFWISDOM

“Sorry,” said Eragon as he bumped the basin.

Nasuada frowned, her face shrinking and elongating as a row of ripples ran through the water in the
basin. “What for?” she asked. “I should think congratulations are in order. You have accomplished
everything I sent you to do and more.”

“No, I—” Eragon stopped as he realized she could not see the disturbance in the water. The spell was
designed so that Nasuada’s mirror would provide her with an unobstructed view of him and Saphira, not
the objects they were gazing at. “I struck the basin with my hand, that is all.”

“Oh. In that case, let me formally congratulate you, Eragon. By ensuring Orik became king—”

“Even if it was by getting myself attacked?”

Nasuada smiled. “Yes, even if it was by getting yourself attacked, you have preserved our alliance with
the dwarves, and that might mean the difference between victory and defeat. The question now becomes,
How long until the rest of the dwarves’ army will be able to join us?”

“Orik has already ordered the warriors to ready themselves for departure,” said Eragon. “It will
probably take the clans a few days to muster their forces, but once they do, they’ll march immediately.”

“It’s a good thing too. We can use their assistance as soon as possible. Which reminds me, when can
we expect you to return? Three days? Four days?”

Saphira shuffled her wings, her breath hot on the back of Eragon’s neck. Eragon glanced at her, and
then, choosing his words with care, he said, “That depends. Do you remember what we discussed before
I left?”

Nasuada pursed her lips. “Of course I do, Eragon. I—” She looked off to the side of the image and
listened as a man addressed her, his voice an unintelligible murmur to Eragon and Saphira. Returning her
attention to them, Nasuada said, “Captain Edric’s company has just returned. They appear to have
suffered heavy casualties, but our watchmen say that Roran survived.”

“Was he injured?” asked Eragon.


“I’ll let you know once I find out. I would not worry too much, though. Roran has the luck of—” Once
again, the voice of an unseen person distracted Nasuada, and she stepped out of view.

Eragon fidgeted while he waited.

“My apologies,” said Nasuada, her visage reappearing in the basin. “We are closing in on Feinster, and
we are having to fight off marauding groups of soldiers Lady Lorana sends from the city to harass us. . . .
Eragon, Saphira, we need you for this battle. If the people of Feinster see only men, dwarves, and Urgals
gathered outside their walls, they may believe they have a chance of holding the city, and they will fight all
the harder because of it. They can’t hold Feinster, of course, but they have yet to realize that. If they see
a dragon and Rider leading the charges against them, however, they will lose the will to fight.”

“But—”

Nasuada raised her hand, cutting him off. “There are other reasons for you to return as well. Because of
my wounds from the Trial of the Long Knives, I cannot ride into battle with the Varden, as I have before.
I needyou to take my place, Eragon, in order to see that my commands are carried out as I intend and
also to prop up the spirits of our warriors. What’s more, rumors of your absence are already coursing
through the camp, despite our best efforts to the contrary. If Murtagh and Thorn attack us directly as a
result, or if Galbatorix sends them to reinforce Feinster . . . well, even with the elves by our sides, I doubt
we could withstand them. I’m sorry, Eragon, but I cannot allow you to return to Ellesméra right now. It’s
too dangerous.”

Pressing his hands against the edge of the cold stone table upon which the basin rested, Eragon said,
“Nasuada, please. If not now, then when?”

“Soon. You must be patient.”

“Soon.” Eragon drew a deep breath, tightening his grip on the table. “How soon exactly?”

Nasuada frowned at him. “You cannot expect me to know that. First we must take Feinster, and then
we must secure the countryside, and then—”

“And then you intend to march on Belatona or Dras-Leona, and then to Urû’baen,” said Eragon.
Nasuada attempted to reply, but he did not allow her the opportunity. “And the closer you get to
Galbatorix, the likelier it will be that Murtagh and Thorn will attack you, or even the king himself, and you
will be ever more reluctant to let us go. . . . Nasuada, Saphira and I do not have the skill, the knowledge,
nor the strength to kill Galbatorix. You know that! Galbatorix could end this war at any time if he was
willing to leave his castle and confront the Varden directly. Wehave to talk with our teachers again. They
can tell us where Galbatorix’s power is coming from, and they might be able to show us a trick or two
that will allow us to defeat him.”

Nasuada gazed downward, studying her hands. “Thorn and Murtagh could destroy us while you were
gone.”

“And if we do not go, Galbatorix will destroy us when we reach Urû’baen. . . . Could you wait a few
days before you attack Feinster?”

“We could, but every day we camp outside the city will cost us lives.” Nasuada rubbed her temples with
the heels of her palms. “You are asking a lot in exchange for an uncertain reward, Eragon.”


“The reward may be uncertain,” he said, “but our doom is inevitable unless we try.”

“Is it? I am not so sure. Still . . .” For an uncomfortably long time, Nasuada was silent, gazing past the
edge of the image. Then she nodded once, as if confirming something to herself, and said, “I can delay
our arrival at Feinster for two or three days. There are several towns in the area we can seize first. Once
we do reach the city, I can pass another two or three days having the Varden build siege engines and
prepare fortifications. No one will think strangely of it. After that, though, I will have to set upon Feinster,
if for no other reason but that we need their supplies. An army that sits still in enemy territory is an army
that starves. At the most, I can give you six days, and perhaps only four.”

As she spoke, Eragon made several quick calculations. “Four days won’t be long enough,” he said, “and
six might not be either. It took Saphira three days to fly to Farthen Dûr, and that was without stopping to
sleep and without having to carry my weight. If the maps I have seen are accurate, it’s at least as far from
here to Ellesméra, maybe farther, and about the same from Ellesméra to Feinster. And with me on her
back, Saphira won’t be able to cover the distance as quickly.”

No, I won’t,Saphira said to him.

Eragon continued: “Even under the best of circumstances, it would still take us a week to reach you at
Feinster, and that would be without staying for more than a minute in Ellesméra.”

An expression of profound exhaustion crossed Nasuada’s face. “Must you fly all the way to Ellesméra?
Wouldn’t it be sufficient to scry with your mentors once you are past the wards along the edge of Du
Weldenvarden? The time you would save could be crucial.”

“I don’t know. We can try.”

Nasuada closed her eyes for a moment. In a hoarse voice, she said, “I may be able to delay our arrival
at Feinster for four days. . . . Go to Ellesméra or don’t; I leave the decision up to you. If you do, then
stay however long is needed. You’re right; unless you find a way to defeat Galbatorix, we have no hope
of victory. Even so, keep you in mind the tremendous risk we are taking, the lives of the Varden I will be
sacrificing in order to buy you this time, and how many more of the Varden will die if we lay siege to
Feinster without you.”

Somber, Eragon nodded. “I won’t forget.”

“I should hope not. Now go! Do not tarry any longer! Fly. Fly! Fly faster than a diving hawk, Saphira,
and do not let anything slow you.” Nasuada touched the tips of her fingers to her lips and then pressed
them against the invisible surface of the mirror, where he knew she beheld the moving likeness of him and
Saphira. “Luck on your journey, Eragon, Saphira. If we meet again, I fear it will be on the field of battle.”

And then she hurried from their sight, and Eragon released his spell, and the water in the basin cleared.


THEWHIPPINGPOST

Roran sat bolt upright and stared past Nasuada, his eyes fixed upon a wrinkle in the side of the crimson
pavilion.

He could feel Nasuada studying him, but he refused to meet her gaze. During the long, dull silence that
enveloped them, he contemplated a host of dire possibilities, and his temples throbbed with a feverish
intensity. He wished he could leave the stifling pavilion and breathe the cool air outside.

At last Nasuada said, “What am I going to do with you, Roran?”

He straightened his spine even more. “Whatever you wish, my Lady.”

“An admirable answer, Stronghammer, but in no way does it resolve my quandary.” Nasuada sipped
wine from a goblet. “Twice you defied a direct order from Captain Edric, and yet if you hadn’t, neither
he nor you nor the rest of your band might have survived to tell the tale. However, your success does not
negate the reality of your disobedience. By your own account, you knowingly committed insubordination,
and Imust punish you if I am to maintain discipline among the Varden.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

Her brow darkened. “Blast it, Stronghammer. If you were anyone else but Eragon’s cousin, and if your
gambit had been even one whit less effective, I would have you strung up and hanged for your
misconduct.”

Roran swallowed as he imagined a noose tightening around his neck.

With the middle finger of her right hand, Nasuada tapped the arm of her high-backed chair with
increasing speed until, stopping, she said, “Do you wish to continue fighting with the Varden, Roran?”

“Yes, my Lady,” he replied without hesitation.

“What are you willing to endure in order to remain within my army?”

Roran did not allow himself to dwell upon the implications of her question. “Whatever I must, my Lady.”

The tension in her face eased, and Nasuada nodded, appearing satisfied. “I hoped you would say that.
Tradition and established precedent leave me only three choices. One, I can hang you, but I won’t . . .
for a multitude of reasons. Two, I can give you thirty lashes and then discharge you from the ranks of the
Varden. Or three, I can give you fifty lashes and keep you under my command.”

Fifty lashes isn’t that many more than thirty,Roran thought, trying to bolster his courage. He wet his
lips. “Would I be flogged where all could see?”

Nasuada’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. “Your pride has no part in this, Stronghammer. The
punishment must be severe so that others are not tempted to follow in your footsteps, and it must be held
in public so that the whole of the Varden can profit by it. If you are even half as intelligent as you seem,
you knew when you defied Edric that your decision would have consequences and that those
consequences would most likely be unpleasant. The choice you must now make is simple: will you stay
with the Varden, or will you abandon your friends and family and go your own way?”


Roran lifted his chin, angry that she would question his word. “I shall not leave, Lady Nasuada. No
matter how many lashes you assign me, they cannot be as painful as losing my home and my father was.”

“No,” said Nasuada softly. “They could not. . . . One of the magicians of Du Vrangr Gata will oversee
the flogging and attend to you afterward, to ensure that the whip causes you no permanent damage.
However, they shall not entirely heal your wounds, nor may you seek out a magician on your own to
mend your back.”

“I understand.”

“Your flogging will be held as soon as Jörmundur can marshal the troops. Until then, you will remain
under guard in a tent by the whipping post.”

It relieved Roran that he would not have to wait any longer; he did not want to have to labor for days
under the shadow of what lay before him. “My Lady,” he said, and she dismissed him with a motion of
her finger.

Turning on his heel, Roran marched out of the pavilion. Two guards took up positions on either side of
him as he emerged. Without looking at or speaking to him, they led Roran through the camp until they
arrived at a small, empty tent not far from the blackened whipping post, which stood upon a slight rise
just beyond the edge of the camp.

The post was six and a half feet high and had a thick crossbeam near the top, to which prisoners’ wrists
were tied. Rows of scratches from the fingernails of scourged men covered the crossbeam.

Roran forced himself to look away and then ducked inside the tent. The only piece of furniture inside
was a battered wooden stool. He sat and concentrated upon his breathing, determined to remain calm.

As the minutes passed, Roran began to hear the tromp of boots and the clink of mail as the Varden
assembled around the whipping post. Roran imagined the thousands of men and women staring at him,
including the villagers from Carvahall. His pulse quickened, and sweat sprang up upon his brow.

After about half an hour, the sorceress Trianna entered the tent and had him strip down to his trousers,
which embarrassed Roran, although the woman seemed to take no notice. Trianna examined him all over,
and even cast an additional spell of healing on his left shoulder, where the soldier had stabbed him with
the bolt of a crossbow. Then she declared him fit to continue and gave him a shirt made of sackcloth to
wear in place of his own.

Roran had just pulled the shirt over his head when Katrina pushed her way into the tent. As he beheld
her, an equal measure of joy and dread filled Roran.

Katrina glanced between him and Trianna, then curtsied to the sorceress. “May I please speak with my
husband alone?”

“Of course. I shall wait outside.”

Once Trianna had departed, Katrina rushed to Roran and threw her arms around him. He hugged her
just as fiercely as she hugged him, for he had not seen her since he had returned to the Varden.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you,” Katrina whispered in his right ear.


“And I you,” he murmured.

They drew apart just far enough so that they could gaze into each other’s eyes, and then Katrina
scowled. “This is wrong! I went to Nasuada, and I begged her to pardon you, or at least to reduce the

number of lashes, but she refused to grant my request.”

Running his hands up and down Katrina’s back, Roran said, “I wish that you hadn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I said that I would remain with the Varden, and I will not go back on my word.”

“But this is wrong!” said Katrina, gripping him by his shoulders. “Carn told me what you did, Roran: you
slew almost two hundred soldiers by yourself, and if not for your heroism, none of the men with you
would have survived. Nasuada ought to be plying you with gifts and praise, not having you whipped like
a common criminal!”

“It does not matter whether this is right or wrong,” he told her. “It is necessary. If I were in Nasuada’s

position, I would have given the same order myself.”

Katrina shuddered. “Fifty lashes, though. . . . Why does it have to be so many? Men have died from
being whipped that many times.”

“Only if they had weak hearts. Don’t be so worried; it will take more than that to kill me.”

A false smile flickered across Katrina’s lips, and then a sob escaped her and she pressed her face
against his chest. He cradled her in his arms, stroking her hair and reassuring her as best he could, even
though he felt no better than she. After several minutes, Roran heard a horn being winded outside the
tent, and he knew that their time together was drawing to a close. Extricating himself from Katrina’s

embrace, he said, “There is something I want you to do for me.”

“What?” she asked, dabbing at her eyes.

“Go back to our tent and do not leave it until after my flogging.”

Katrina appeared shocked by his request. “No! I shall not leave you . . . not now.”

“Please,” he said, “you should not have to see this.”

“And you should not have to endure it,” she retorted.

“Leave that. I know you wish to stay by my side, but I can bear this better if I know that you aren’t here

watching me. . . . I brought this upon myself, Katrina, and I do not want you to suffer because of it as

well.”

Her expression became strained. “The knowledge of your fate shall pain me regardless of where I am
standing. However . . . I shall do as you ask, but only because it will help you through this ordeal. . . .
You know that I would have the whip fall upon my own body instead of yours, if I could.”

“And you know,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks, “that I would refuse to let you take my place.”


Tears welled up in her eyes again, and she pulled him closer, hugging him so tightly, he had difficulty
breathing.

They were still wrapped in each other’s arms when the entrance flap to the tent was swept back and
Jörmundur entered, along with two of the Nighthawks. Katrina disengaged herself from Roran, curtsied
to Jörmundur, and then, without a word, slipped out of the tent.

Jörmundur extended a hand toward Roran. “It’s time.”

Nodding, Roran rose and allowed Jörmundur and the guards to escort him to the whipping post outside.
Row after row of the Varden boxed in the area around the post, every man, woman, dwarf, and Urgal
standing with stiff spines and squared shoulders. After his initial glimpse of the assembled army, Roran
gazed off toward the horizon and did his best to ignore the onlookers.

The two guards lifted Roran’s arms above his head and secured his wrists to the crossbeam of the
whipping post. While they did, Jörmundur walked around in front of the post and held up a
leather-wrapped dowel. “Here, bite down on this,” he said in a low voice. “It will keep you from hurting
yourself.” Grateful, Roran opened his mouth and allowed Jörmundur to fit the dowel between his teeth.
The tanned leather tasted bitter, like green acorns.

Then a horn and a drumroll sounded, and Jörmundur read out the charges against Roran, and the guards
cut off Roran’s sackcloth shirt.

He shivered as the cold air washed across his bare torso.

An instant before it struck, Roran heard the whip whistling through the air.

It felt as if a rod of hot metal had been laid across his flesh. Roran arched his back and bit down on the
dowel. An involuntary groan escaped him, although the dowel muffled the sound so he thought no one
else heard.

“One,” said the man wielding the whip.

The shock of the second blow caused Roran to groan again, but thereafter he remained silent,
determined not to appear weak before the whole of the Varden.

The whipping was as painful as any of the numerous wounds Roran had suffered over the past few
months, but after a dozen or so blows, he gave up trying to fight the pain and, surrendering to it, entered
a bleary trance. His field of vision narrowed until the only thing he saw was the worn wood in front of
him; at times, his sight flickered and went blank as he drifted into brief spates of unconsciousness.

After an interminable time, he heard the dim and faraway voice intone, “Thirty,” and despair gripped him
as he wondered,How can I possibly withstand another twenty lashes? Then he thought of Katrina and
their unborn child, and the thought gave him strength.


Roran woke to find himself lying on his stomach on the cot inside the tent he and Katrina shared. Katrina
was kneeling next to him, stroking his hair and murmuring in his ear, while someone daubed a cold, sticky
substance over the stripes on his back. He winced and stiffened as the anonymous person poked a
particularly sensitive spot.


“That isnot how I would treat a patient of mine,” he heard Trianna say in a haughty tone.

“If you treat all of your patients as you were treating Roran,” another woman replied, “I’m amazed that

any survived your attentions.” After a moment, Roran recognized the second voice as belonging to the
strange, bright-eyed herbalist Angela.

“I beg your pardon!” said Trianna. “I will not stand here and be insulted by a lowlyfortuneteller who

struggles to cast even the most basic spell.”
“Sit, then, if it pleases you, but whether you sit or stand, I will continue to insult you until you admit that

his back muscle attacheshere and notthere .” Roran felt a finger touch him in two different places, each a
half inch apart.

“Oh!” said Trianna, and left the tent.

Katrina smiled at Roran, and for the first time, he noticed the tears streaking her face. “Roran, do you

understand me?” she asked. “Are you awake?”

“I . . . I think so,” he said, his voice raspy. His jaw ached from biting the dowel so hard for so long. He
coughed, then grimaced as every one of the fifty stripes on his back throbbed in unison.

“There we go,” said Angela. “All finished.”

“It’s amazing. I didn’t expect you and Trianna to do so much,” said Katrina.

“On Nasuada’s orders.”

“Nasuada? . . . Why would—”

“You’ll have to ask her yourself. Tell him to stay off his back if he can help it. And he ought to be careful

twisting from side to side, or he might tear open the scabs.”

“Thank you,” Roran mumbled.

Behind him, Angela laughed. “Think nothing of it, Roran. Or rather, think something of it, but do not

consider it overly important. Besides, it amuses me to have tended injuries on both your back and

Eragon’s. Right, then, I’ll be off. Watch out for ferrets!”

When the herbalist had gone, Roran closed his eyes again. Katrina’s smooth fingers stroked his
forehead. “You were very brave,” she said.

“Was I?”

“Aye. Jörmundur and everyone else I spoke to said that you never cried out or begged for the flogging
to stop.”

“Good.” He wanted to know how serious his wounds were, but he was reluctant to force her to
describe the damage to his back.

Katrina seemed to sense his desire, however, for she said, “Angela believes that with a bit of luck, you


won’t scar too badly. In either case, once you’re completely healed, Eragon or another magician can
remove the scars from your back and it will be as if you were never whipped in the first place.”

“Mmh.”

“Would you like something to drink?” she asked. “I have a pot of yarrow tea steeping.”

“Yes, please.”

As Katrina rose, Roran heard another person enter the tent. He opened one eye and was surprised to
see Nasuada standing next to the pole at the front of the tent.

“My Lady,” Katrina said, her voice razor-sharp.

In spite of the lances of pain from his back, Roran pushed himself partially up and, with Katrina’s help,
swung himself into a sitting position. Leaning on Katrina, he started to stand, but Nasuada lifted a hand.
“Please don’t. I do not wish to cause you any more distress than I already have.”

“Why have you come, Lady Nasuada?” asked Katrina. “Roran needs to rest and recover, not to spend
his time talking when he does not have to.”

Roran placed a hand on Katrina’s left shoulder. “I can talk if I must,” he said.

Moving farther into the tent, Nasuada lifted the hem of her green dress and sat on the small chest of
belongings Katrina had brought with her from Carvahall. After arranging the folds of her skirt, she said, “I
have another mission for you, Roran: a small raid similar to those you have already participated in.”

“When will I leave?” he asked, puzzled that she would bother to inform him in person of such a simple
assignment.

“Tomorrow.”

Katrina’s eyes widened. “Are you mad?” she exclaimed.

“Katrina . . . ,” Roran murmured, attempting to placate her, but she shrugged off his hand and said, “The
last trip you sent him on nearly killed him, and you’ve just had him whipped within an inch of his life! You
can’t order him back into combat so soon; he wouldn’t last more than a minute against Galbatorix’s
soldiers!”

“I can, and I must!” said Nasuada with such authority, Katrina held her tongue and waited to hear
Nasuada’s explanation, although Roran could tell that her anger had not subsided. Gazing at him
intensely, Nasuada said, “Roran, as you may or may not be aware, our alliance with the Urgals is upon
the verge of collapse. One of our own murdered three of the Urgals while you were serving under
Captain Edric, who, you may be pleased to know, is a captain no more. Anyway, I had the miserable
wretch who killed the Urgals hanged, but ever since, our relations with Garzhvog’s rams have become
increasingly precarious.”

“What does this have to do with Roran?” Katrina demanded.

Nasuada pressed her lips together, then said, “I need to convince the Varden to accept the presence of
the Urgals without further bloodshed, and the best way I can do that is toshow the Varden that our two


races can work together in peaceful pursuit of a common goal. Toward that end, the group you shall be
traveling with will contain equal numbers of both humans and Urgals.”

“But that still doesn’t—” Katrina started to say.

“And I am placing the whole lot of them under your command, Stronghammer.”

“Me?” Roran rasped, astonished. “Why?”

With a wry smile, Nasuada said, “Because you will do whatever you have to in order to protect your
friends and family. In this, you are like me, although my family is larger than yours, for I consider the
whole of the Varden my kin. Also, because you are Eragon’s cousin, I cannot afford to have you commit
insubordination again, for then I will have no choice but to execute you or expel you from the Varden.
Neither of which I wish to do.

“Therefore, I am giving you your own command so that there is no one above you to disobey, except
me. If you ignoremy orders, it had better be to kill Galbatorix; no other reason will save you from far
worse than the lashes you earned today. And I am giving youthis command, because you have proven
that you are able to convince others to follow you, even in the face of the most daunting circumstances.
You have as good a chance as any of maintaining control over a group of Urgals and humans. I would
send Eragon if I could, but since he is not here, the responsibility falls to you. When the Varden hear that
Eragon’s own cousin, Roran Stronghammer—he who slew nigh on two hundred soldiers by
himself—went on a mission with Urgals and that the mission was a success, then we may yet keep the
Urgals as our allies for the duration of this war.That is why I had Angela and Trianna heal you more than
is customary: not to spare you your punishment, but because I need you fit to command. Now, what say
you, Stronghammer? Can I count on you?”

Roran looked at Katrina. He knew she desperately wished he would tell Nasuada that he was incapable
of leading the raid. Dropping his gaze so he did not have to see her distress, Roran thought of the
immense size of the army that opposed the Varden, and then, in a hoarse whisper, he said:

“You may count on me, Lady Nasuada.”

AMONG THECLOUDS

From Tronjheim, Saphira flew the five miles to Farthen Dûr’s inner wall, then she and Eragon entered
the tunnel that burrowed east, miles through Farthen Dûr’s base. Eragon could have run the length of the
tunnel in about ten minutes, but since the height of the ceiling prevented Saphira from flying or jumping,
she would not have been able to keep up, so he limited himself to a brisk walk.

An hour later, they emerged in Odred Valley, which ran north to south. Nestled among the foothills at
the head of the narrow, fern-filled valley was Fernoth-mérna, a fair-sized lake that was like a drop of
dark ink between the towering mountains of the Beor range. From the northern end of Fernoth-mérna
flowed the Ragni Darmn, which wound its way up the valley until it joined with the Az Ragni by the flanks


of Moldûn the Proud, the northernmost mountain of the Beors.

They had departed Tronjheim well before dawn, and although the tunnel had slowed them, it was still
early morning. The ragged strip of sky overhead was barred with rays of pale yellow where sunlight
streamed between the peaks of the towering mountains. Within the valley below, ridges of heavy clouds
clung to the sides of the mountains like vast gray snakes. Coils of white mist drifted up from the glassy
surface of the lake.

Eragon and Saphira stopped at the edge of Fernoth-mérna to drink and to replenish their waterskins for
the next leg of their journey. The water came from melted snow and ice high in the mountains. It was so
cold, it made Eragon’s teeth hurt. He screwed up his eyes and stamped the ground, groaning as a spike
of cold-induced pain shot through his skull.

As the throbbing subsided, he gazed across the lake. Between the curtains of shifting mist, he spotted the
ruins of a sprawling castle built upon a bare stone spur on one mountain. Thick ropes of ivy strangled the
crumbling walls, but aside from that, the structure appeared lifeless. Eragon shivered. The abandoned
building seemed gloomy, ominous, as if it were the decaying carcass of some foul beast.

Ready?Saphira asked.

Ready,he said, and climbed into the saddle.

From Fernoth-mérna, Saphira flew northward, following Odred Valley out of the Beor Mountains. The
valley did not lead directly toward Ellesméra, which was farther west, yet they had no choice but to
remain in the valley, as the passes between the mountains were over five miles high.

Saphira flew at as lofty an altitude as Eragon could endure because it was easier for her to traverse long
distances in the rarefied upper atmosphere than in the thick, moist air near the ground. Eragon protected
himself against the freezing temperatures by wearing several layers of clothes and by shielding himself
from the wind with a spell that split the stream of freezing air so it flowed harmlessly to either side.

Riding Saphira was far from restful, but since she flapped in a slow and steady rhythm, Eragon did not
have to concentrate upon maintaining his balance as he did when she turned or dove or engaged in other,
more elaborate maneuvers. For the most part, he divided his time between talking with Saphira, thinking
back upon the events of the past few weeks, and studying the ever-changing vista below them.

You used magic without the ancient language when the dwarves attacked you,said Saphira.That
was a dangerous thing to do.

I know, but I didn’t have time to think of the words. Besides, you never use the ancient language
whenyoucast a spell.

That’s different. I’m a dragon. We do not need the ancient language tostate our intentions; we
know what we want, and we do not change our minds as easily as elves or humans.

The orange sun was a handsbreadth above the horizon when Saphira sailed through the mouth of the
valley and out over the flat, empty grasslands that abutted the Beor Mountains. Straightening in the
saddle, Eragon gazed around them and shook his head, amazed by how much distance they had
covered.If only we could have flown to Ellesméra the first time, he said.We would have had so


much more time to spend with Oromis and Glaedr . Saphira indicated her agreement with a silent
mental nod.

Saphira flew until the sun had set and the stars covered the sky and the mountains were a dark purple
smudge behind them. She would have continued on until morning, but Eragon insisted they stop to rest.
You are still tired from your trip to Farthen Dûr. We can fly through the night tomorrow, and the
day after as well, if necessary, but tonight you must sleep.

Although Saphira did not like his proposal, she agreed to it and landed by a patch of willow trees
growing alongside a stream. As he dismounted, Eragon discovered his legs were so stiff, he had difficulty
remaining on his feet. He unsaddled Saphira, then spread his bedroll on the ground next to her and curled
up with his back against her warm body. He had no need of a tent, for she sheltered him with a wing, like
a mother hawk protecting her brood. The two of them soon sank into their respective dreams, which
mingled in strange and wonderful ways, for their minds remained linked even then.

As soon as the first hint of light appeared in the east, Eragon and Saphira continued on their way, soaring
high above the verdant plains.

A fierce headwind sprang up in midmorning, which slowed Saphira to half her normal speed. Try as she
might, she could not rise above the wind. All day she fought against the rushing air. It was arduous work,
and although Eragon gave her as much of his strength as he dared, by afternoon her exhaustion was
profound. She swooped down and alighted on a knoll in the grasslands and sat there with her wings
draped across the ground, panting and trembling.

We should stay here for the night,Eragon said.

No.

Saphira, you’re in no condition to go on. Let’s make camp until you recover. Who knows, the
wind might die down by evening.

He heard the wet rasp of her tongue as she licked her chops and then the heave of her lungs as she
resumed panting.

No,she said.On these plains, it might blow for weeks or even months on end. We cannot wait for
calm .

But—

I will not give up merely because I hurt, Eragon. Too much is at stake. . . .

Then let me give you energy from Aren. There is more than enough in the ring to sustain you
from here to Du Weldenvarden.

No,she repeated again.Save Aren for when we have no other recourse. I can rest and recover in
the forest. Aren, however, we may have need of at any moment; you should not deplete it merely
to ease my discomfort.

I hate to see you in such pain, though.


A faint growl escaped her.My ancestors, the wild dragons, would not have shrunk from a puny
breeze like this, and neither will I.

And with that, she jumped back into the air, carrying him with her as she drove herself into the gale.

As the day was drawing to an end and the wind still howled around them, pushing against Saphira as if
fate were determined to keep them from reaching Du Weldenvarden, Eragon thought of the dwarf
woman Glûmra and of her faith in the dwarven gods, and for the first time in his life, he felt the desire to
pray. Withdrawing from his mental contact with Saphira—who was so tired and preoccupied, she did
not notice—Eragon whispered, “Gûntera, king of the gods, if you exist, and if you can hear me, and if
you have the power, then, please, still this wind. I know I’m not a dwarf, but King Hrothgar adopted me
into his clan, and I think that gives me the right to pray to you. Gûntera, please, we have to get to Du
Weldenvarden as fast as possible, not only for the good of the Varden but also for the good of your
people, the knurlan. Please, I beg of you, still this wind. Saphira cannot keep this up much longer.” Then,
feeling slightly foolish, Eragon extended himself toward Saphira’s consciousness, wincing in sympathy as
he felt the burning within her muscles.

Late that night, when all was cold and black, the wind abated and, thereafter, only occasionally buffeted
them with a gust.

When morning came, Eragon looked down and saw the hard, dry land of the Hadarac Desert.Blast it,
he said, for they had not come as far as he had hoped.We won’t make it to Ellesméra today, will we?

Not unless the wind decides to blow in the opposite direction and carry us there upon its back.
Saphira labored in silence for another few minutes, then added,However, barring any other unpleasant
surprises, we should arrive at Du Weldenvarden by evening .

Eragon grunted.

They landed only twice that day. Once, while they were on the ground, Saphira devoured a brace of
ducks that she caught and killed with a burst of fire, but other than that, she went without food. To save
time, Eragon ate his own meals in the saddle.

As Saphira had predicted, Du Weldenvarden came into sight even as the sun neared setting. The forest
appeared before them as an endless expanse of green. Deciduous trees—oaks and beeches and
maples—dominated the outer parts of the forest, but farther in, Eragon knew, they gave way to the
forbidding pine trees that formed the bulk of the woods.

Dusk had settled over the countryside by the time they arrived at the edge of Du Weldenvarden, and
Saphira glided to a soft landing under the outstretched branches of a massive oak. She folded her wings
and sat still for a while, too tired to continue. Her crimson tongue hung loose from her mouth. While she
rested, Eragon listened to the rustle of leaves overhead and to the hoot of owls and the chirp of evening
insects.

When she was sufficiently recovered, Saphira walked forward and passed between two giant,
moss-covered oak trees and so crossed into Du Weldenvarden on foot. The elves had made it
impossible for anyone or anything to enter the forest by means of magic, and since dragons did not rely
upon their bodies alone to fly, Saphira could not enter while in the air, else her wings would fail her and
she would fall from the sky.


That should be far enough,Saphira said, stopping in a small meadow several hundred feet from the

perimeter of the forest.
Eragon unbuckled the straps from around his legs and slid down Saphira’s side. He searched the
meadow until he found a bare patch of earth. With his hands, he scooped out a shallow hole a foot and a
half wide. He summoned forth water to fill the hole, then uttered a spell of scrying.

The water shimmered and acquired a soft yellow glow as Eragon beheld the interior of Oromis’s hut.
The silver-haired elf was sitting at his kitchen table, reading a tattered scroll. Oromis looked up at Eragon
and nodded with unsurprised recognition.

“Master,” Eragon said, and twisted his hand over his chest.
“Greetings, Eragon. I have been expecting you. Where are you?”
“Saphira and I just reached Du Weldenvarden. . . . Master, I know we promised to return to Ellesméra,


but the Varden are only a few days away from the city of Feinster, and they are vulnerable without us.
We don’t have the time to fly all the way to Ellesméra. Could you answer our questions here, through the
scrying pool?”

Oromis leaned back in his chair, his angled face grave and pensive. Then he said, “I will not instruct you
at a distance, Eragon. I can guess at some of the things you wish to ask me, and they are subjects we
must discuss in person.”

“Master, please. If Murtagh and Thorn—”
“No, Eragon. I understand the reason for your urgency, but your studies are just as important as


protecting the Varden, maybe even more so. We must do this properly, or not at all.”
Eragon sighed and slumped forward. “Yes, Master.”
Oromis nodded. “Glaedr and I will be waiting for you. Fly safe and fly fast. We have much to talk


about.”
“Yes, Master.”
Feeling numb and worn-out, Eragon ended the spell. The water soaked back into the ground. He held


his head in his hands, staring at the patch of moist dirt between his feet. Saphira’s heavy breathing was
loud beside him.I guess we have to keep going, he said.I’m sorry .
Her breathing paused for a moment as she licked her chops.It’s all right. I’m not about to collapse .
He looked up at her.Are you sure?


Yes.
Eragon reluctantly hoisted himself upright and climbed onto her back.As long as we’re going to
Ellesméra, he said, tightening the straps around his legs,we should visit the Menoa tree again. Maybe
we can finally figure out what Solembum meant. I could certainly use a new sword .


When Eragon had first met Solembum in Teirm, the werecat had told him,When the time comes and


you need a weapon, look under the roots of the Menoa tree. Then, when all seems lost and your
power is insufficient, go to the Rock of Kuthian and speak your name to open the Vault of Souls.

Eragon still did not know where the Rock of Kuthian was, but during their first stay in Ellesméra, he and
Saphira had had several chances to examine the Menoa tree. They had discovered no clue as to the
exact whereabouts of the supposed weapon. Moss, dirt, bark, and the occasional ant were the only
things they had seen among the roots of the Menoa tree, and none of them indicated where to excavate.

Solembum might not have meant a sword,Saphira pointed out.Werecats love riddles nearly as
much as dragons do. If it even exists, this weapon might be a scrap of parchment with a spell
inscribed on it, or a book, or a painting, or a sharp piece of rock, or any other dangerous thing.

Whatever it is, I hope we can find it. Who knows when we will have the chance to return to
Ellesméra again?

Saphira raked aside a fallen tree that lay before her, then crouched and unfurled her velvety wings, her
massive shoulder muscles bunching. Eragon yelped and grabbed the front of his saddle as she surged up
and forward with unexpected force, rising above the tops of the trees in a single vertiginous bound.

Wheeling over the sea of shifting branches, Saphira oriented herself in a northwesterly direction and then
set out toward the elves’ capital, the beats of her wings slow and heavy.

BUTTINGHEADS

The raid on the supply train went almost exactly as Roran had planned: three days after leaving the main
body of the Varden, he and his fellow horsemen rode down from the lip of a ravine and struck the
meandering line of wagons broadside. Meanwhile, the Urgals sprang out from behind boulders scattered
across the floor of the ravine and attacked the supply train from the front, stopping the procession in its
tracks. The soldiers and wagoners put up a brave fight, but the ambush had caught them while sleepy and
disorganized, and Roran’s force soon overwhelmed them. None of the humans or Urgals died in the
attack, and only three suffered wounds: two humans and one Urgal.

Roran killed several of the soldiers himself, but for the most part, he hung back and concentrated upon
directing the assault, as was his responsibility now. He was still stiff and sore from the flogging he had
endured, and he did not want to exert himself any more than necessary, for fear of cracking the mat of
scabs that covered his back.

Until that point, Roran had had no difficulty maintaining discipline among the twenty humans and twenty
Urgals. Although it was obvious that neither group liked nor trusted the other—an attitude he shared, for
he regarded the Urgals with the same degree of suspicion and distaste as would any man who had been
raised in proximity to the Spine—they had succeeded in working together during the past three days with
nary a raised voice. That both groups had managed to cooperate so well had, he knew, little to do with
his prowess as a commander. Nasuada and Nar Garzhvog had taken great care in picking the warriors
who were to travel with him, selecting only those with a reputation for a quick blade, sound judgment,
and, above all, a calm and even disposition.


However, in the aftermath of the attack on the supply train, as his men were busy dragging the bodies of
the soldiers and the wagoners into a pile, and Roran was riding up and down the line of wagons
overseeing the work, he heard an agonized howl from somewhere by the far end of the train. Thinking
that perhaps another contingent of soldiers had chanced upon them, Roran shouted to Carn and several
other men to join him and then touched his spurs to Snowfire’s flanks and galloped toward the rear of the
wagons.

Four Urgals had tied an enemy soldier to the trunk of a gnarled willow tree and were amusing
themselves by poking and prodding him with their swords. Swearing, Roran jumped down from Snowfire
and, with a single blow of his hammer, put the man out of his misery.

A swirling cloud of dust swept over the group as Carn and four other warriors galloped up to the willow
tree. They reined in their steeds and spread out on either side of Roran, holding their weapons at the
ready.

The largest Urgal, a ram named Yarbog, stepped forward. “Stronghammer, why did you stop our sport?
He would have danced for us for many more minutes.”

From between clenched teeth, Roran said, “So long as you are under my command, you will not torture
captives without cause. Am I understood? Many of these soldiers have been forced to serve Galbatorix
against their will. Many of them are our friends or family or neighbors, and while we must fight them, I will
not have you treat them with unnecessary cruelty. If not for the whims of fate, any one of us humans might
be standing in their place. They are not our enemy; Galbatorix is, as he is yours.”

The Urgal’s heavy brow beetled, nearly obscuring his deep-set yellow eyes. “But you will still kill them,
yes? Why cannot we enjoy seeing them wriggle and dance first?”

Roran wondered if the Urgal’s skull was too thick to crack with his hammer. Struggling to restrain his
anger, he said, “Because it is wrong, if nothing else!” Pointing at the dead soldier, he said, “What ifhe had
been one of your own race who had been enthralled by the Shade, Durza? Would you have tormented
him as well?”

“Of course,” said Yarbog. “They would want us to tickle them with our swords so that they would have
an opportunity to prove their bravery before they died. Is it not the same with you hornless humans, or
have you no stomach for pain?”

Roran was not sure how serious an insult it was among the Urgals to call anotherhornless, but even so,
he had no doubt that questioning someone’s courage was as offensive to Urgals as it was to humans, if
not more so. “Any one of us could withstand more pain without crying out than you, Yarbog,” he said,
tightening his grip on his hammer and shield. “Now, unless you wish to experience agony the likes of
which you cannot imagine, surrender your sword to me, then untie that poor wretch and carry him over
to the rest of the bodies. After that, go see to the packhorses. They are yours to care for until we return
to the Varden.”

Without waiting for an acknowledgment from the Urgal, Roran turned and grasped Snowfire’s reins and
prepared to climb back onto the stallion.

“No,” growled Yarbog.

Roran froze with one foot in a stirrup and silently swore to himself. He had hoped that just such a


situation would not arise during the trip. Swinging around, he said, “No? Are you refusing to obey my
orders?”

Drawing back his lips to expose his short fangs, Yarbog said, “No. I challenge you for leadership of this
tribe, Stronghammer.” And the Urgal threw back his massive head and bellowed so loudly that the rest of
the humans and Urgals stopped what they were doing and ran toward the willow tree until all forty of
them were clustered around Yarbog and Roran.

“Shall we attend to this creature for you?” Carn asked, his voice ringing out.

Wishing that there were not so many onlookers, Roran shook his head. “No, I shall deal with him
myself.” Despite his words, he was glad to have his men beside him, opposite the line of hulking,
gray-skinned Urgals. The humans were smaller than the Urgals, but all except Roran were mounted on
horses, which would give them a slight advantage if there were a fight between the two groups. If that
came to pass, Carn’s magic would be of little help, for the Urgals had a spellcaster of their own, a
shaman named Dazhgra, and from what Roran had seen, Dazhgra was the more powerful magician, if not
as skilled in the nuances of their arcane art.

To Yarbog, Roran said, “It is not the custom of the Varden to award leadership based upon trial by
combat. If you wish to fight, I will fight, but you will gain nothing by it. If I lose, Carn will assume my
command, and you will answer to him instead of me.”

“Bah!” said Yarbog. “I do not challenge you for the right to lead your own race. I challenge you for the
right to lead us, the fighting rams of the Bolvek tribe! You have not proven yourself, Stronghammer, so
you cannot claim the position of chieftain. If you lose, I will become chieftain here, and we shall not lift
our chins to you, Carn, or any other creature too weak to earn our respect!”

Roran pondered his situation before accepting the inevitable. Even if it cost him his life, he had to try to
maintain his authority over the Urgals, else the Varden would lose them as allies. Taking a breath, he said,
“Among my race, it is customary for the person who has been challenged to choose the time and place
for the fight, as well as the weapons both parties will use.”

Chortling deep in his throat, Yarbog said, “The time is now, Stronghammer. The place is here. And
among my race, we fight in a loincloth and without weapons.”

“That is hardly fair, since I have no horns,” Roran pointed out. “Will you agree to let me use my hammer
to compensate for my lack?”

Yarbog thought about it, then said, “You may keep your helmet and shield, but no hammer. Weapons
are not allowed when we fight to be chief.”

“I see. . . . Well, if I can’t have my hammer, I will forgo my helmet and shield as well. What are the rules
of combat, and how shall we decide the winner?”

“There is only one rule, Stronghammer: if you flee, you forfeit the match and are banished from your
tribe. You win by forcing your rival to submit, but since I will never submit, we will fight to the death.”

Roran nodded.That might be what he intends to do, but I won’t kill him if I can help it. “Let us
begin,” he cried, and banged his hammer against his shield.

At his direction, the men and Urgals cleared a space in the middle of the ravine and pegged out a square,


twelve paces by twelve paces. Then Roran and Yarbog stripped, and two Urgals slathered bear grease
over Yarbog’s body while Carn and Loften, another human, did the same for Roran.

“Rub as much as you can into my back,” Roran murmured. He wanted his scabs to be as soft as
possible so as to minimize the number of places they would crack.

Leaning close to him, Carn said, “Why did you refuse the shield and helmet?”

“They would only slow me. I’ll have to be as fast as a frightened hare if I’m to avoid being crushed by
him.” As Carn and Loften worked their way down his limbs, Roran studied his opponent, searching for
any vulnerability that would help him defeat the Urgal.

Yarbog stood well over six feet tall. His back was broad, his chest deep, and his arms and legs covered
with knotted muscles. His neck was as thick as a bull’s, as it had to be in order to sustain the weight of
his head and his curled horns. Three slanting scars marked the left side of his waist, where he had been
clawed by an animal. Sparse black bristles grew over the whole of his hide.

At least he’s not a Kull,thought Roran. He was confident of his own strength, but even so, he did not
believe that he could overpower Yarbog with sheer force. Rare was the man who could hope to match
the physical prowess of a healthy Urgal ram. Also, Roran knew that Yarbog’s large black fingernails, his
fangs, his horns, and his leathery hide would all provide Yarbog with considerable advantages in the
unarmed combat they were about to engage in.If I can, I will, Roran decided, thinking of all the low
tricks he could use against the Urgal, for fighting Yarbog would not be like wrestling with Eragon or
Baldor or any other man from Carvahall; rather, Roran was sure that it would be like the ferocious and
unrestrained brawling between two wild beasts.

Again and again, Roran’s eyes returned to Yarbog’s immense horns, for those, he knew, were the most
dangerous of the Urgal’s features. With them, Yarbog could butt and gore Roran with impunity, and they
would also protect the sides of Yarbog’s head from any blows Roran could deliver with his bare hands,
although they limited the Urgal’s peripheral vision. Then it occurred to Roran that just as the horns were
Yarbog’s greatest natural gift, so too they might be his undoing.

Roran rolled his shoulders and bounced on the balls of his feet, eager for the contest to be over.

When both Roran and Yarbog were completely covered with bear grease, their seconds retreated and
they stepped into the confines of the square pegged out on the ground. Roran kept his knees partially
flexed, ready to leap in any direction at the slightest hint of movement from Yarbog. The rocky soil was
cold, hard, and rough beneath the soles of his bare feet.

A slight gust stirred the branches of the nearby willow tree. One of the oxen harnessed to the wagons
pawed at a clump of grass, his tack creaking.

With a rippling bellow, Yarbog charged Roran, covering the distance between them with three
thundering steps. Roran waited until Yarbog was nearly upon him, then jumped to the right. He
underestimated Yarbog’s speed, however. Lowering his head, the Urgal rammed his horns into Roran’s
left shoulder and tossed him sprawling across the square.

Sharp rocks poked into Roran’s side as he landed. Lines of pain flashed across his back, tracing the
paths of his half-healed wounds. He grunted and rolled upright, feeling several scabs break open,
exposing his raw flesh to the stinging air. Dirt and small pebbles clung to the film of grease on his body.
Keeping both feet on the ground, he shuffled toward Yarbog, never taking his eyes off the snarling Urgal.


Again Yarbog charged him, and again Roran attempted to jump out of the way. This time his maneuver
succeeded, and he slipped past the Urgal with inches to spare. Whirling around, Yarbog ran at him for a
third time, and once more, Roran managed to evade him.

Then Yarbog changed tactics. Advancing sideways, like a crab, he thrust out his large, hooked hands to
catch Roran and pull him into his deadly embrace. Roran flinched and retreated. Whatever happened, he
had to avoid falling into Yarbog’s clutches; with his immense strength, the Urgal could soon dispatch him.

The men and Urgals gathered around the square were silent, their faces impassive as they watched
Roran and Yarbog scuffle back and forth in the dirt.

For several minutes, Roran and Yarbog exchanged quick glancing blows. Roran avoided closing with
the Urgal wherever possible, trying to wear him out from a distance, but as the fight dragged on and
Yarbog seemed no more tired than when they had begun, Roran realized that time was not his friend. If
he was going to win, he had to end the fight without further delay.

Hoping to provoke Yarbog into charging again—for his strategy depended upon just that—Roran
withdrew to the far corner of the square and began to taunt him, saying, “Ha! You are as fat and slow as
a milk cow! Can’t you catch me, Yarbog, or are your legs made of lard? You should cut off your horns
in shame for letting a human make a fool of you. What will your prospective mates think when they hear
of this? Will you tell them—”

Yarbog drowned out Roran’s words with a roar. The Urgal sprinted toward him, turning slightly, so as
to crash into Roran with his full weight. Skipping out of the way, Roran reached out for the tip of
Yarbog’s right horn but missed his mark and fell stumbling into the middle of the square, skinning both
knees. He cursed to himself as he regained his footing.

Checking his headlong rush just before momentum carried him beyond the boundaries of the square,
Yarbog turned back, his small yellow eyes searching for Roran. “Yah!” shouted Roran. He stuck out his
tongue and made every rude gesture he could think of. “You couldn’t hit a tree even if it was in front of
you!”

“Die, puny human!” Yarbog growled, and sprang at Roran, arms outstretched.

Two of Yarbog’s nails carved bloody furrows across Roran’s ribs as Roran darted to his left, but he still
managed to grasp and hang on to one of the Urgal’s horns. Roran grabbed the other horn as well before
Yarbog could throw him off. Using the horns as handles, Roran wrenched Yarbog’s head to one side
and, straining every muscle, cast the Urgal to the ground. Roran’s back flared in angry protest at the
motion.

As soon as Yarbog’s chest touched the dirt, Roran placed a knee on top of his right shoulder, pinning
him in place. Yarbog snorted and bucked, trying to break Roran’s grip, but Roran refused to let go. He
braced his feet against a rock and twisted the Urgal’s head as far around as it would go, pulling so hard
he would have broken the neck of any human. The grease on his palms made it difficult to hold on to
Yarbog’s horns.

Yarbog relaxed for a moment, then pushed himself off the ground with his left arm, lifting Roran as well,
and scrabbled with his legs in an effort to get them underneath his body. Roran grimaced and leaned
against Yarbog’s neck and shoulder. After a handful of seconds, Yarbog’s left arm buckled and he fell
flat on his stomach again.


Both Roran and Yarbog were panting as heavily as if they had run a race. Where they touched, the
bristles on the Urgal’s hide poked Roran like pieces of stiff wire. Dust coated their bodies. Thin streams
of blood ran down from the scratches on Roran’s side and from his aching back.

Yarbog resumed kicking and flailing once he had regained his breath, flopping around in the dirt like a
hooked fish. It took all of Roran’s strength, but he hung on, trying to ignore the stones that cut his feet
and legs. Unable to free himself by those methods, Yarbog let his limbs go limp and then began to flex his
neck again and again, in an attempt to exhaust Roran’s arms.

They lay there, neither of them moving more than a few inches as they struggled against each other.

A fly buzzed over them and landed on Roran’s ankle.

Oxen lowed.

After nearly ten minutes, sweat drenched Roran’s face. He could not seem to get enough air into his
lungs. His arms seared with agony. The stripes on his back felt as if they were about to tear asunder. His
ribs throbbed where Yarbog had clawed him.

Roran knew he could not continue for much longer.Blast it! he thought.Won’t he ever give up?

Just then, Yarbog’s head quivered as a muscle in the Urgal’s neck cramped. Yarbog grunted, the first
sound he had made in over a minute, and in an undertone, he muttered, “Kill me, Stronghammer. I cannot
best you.”

Adjusting his grip on Yarbog’s horns, Roran growled in an equally low tone, “No. If you want to die,
find someone else to kill you. I have fought by your rules, now you will accept defeat according to mine.
Tell everyone that you submit to me. Say you were wrong to challenge me. Do that, and I’ll let you go. If
not, I’ll keep you here until you change your mind, no matter how long it takes.”

Yarbog’s head twitched under Roran’s hands as the Urgal tried once more to free himself. He huffed,
blowing a small cloud of dust into the air, then rumbled, “The shame would be too great, Stronghammer.
Kill me.”

“I don’t belong to your race, and I won’t abide by your customs,” said Roran. “If you are so worried
about your honor, tell those who are curious that you were defeated by the cousin of Eragon
Shadeslayer. Surely there is no shame in that.” When several minutes had passed and Yarbog still had
not replied, Roran yanked on Yarbog’s horns and growled, “Well?”

Raising his voice so that all of the men and Urgals could hear, Yarbog said, “Gar! Svarvok curse me; I
submit! I should not have challenged you, Stronghammer. You are worthy to be chief, and I am not.”

As one, the men cheered and shouted, banging the pommels of their swords on their shields. The Urgals
shifted in place and said nothing.

Satisfied, Roran released Yarbog’s horns and rolled away from the gray Urgal. Feeling almost as if he
had endured another flogging, Roran slowly got to his feet and hobbled out of the square to where Carn
was waiting.

Roran winced as Carn draped a blanket over his shoulders and the fabric rubbed against his abused


skin. Grinning, Carn handed him a wineskin. “After he knocked you down, I thought for sure he would
kill you. I should have learned by now to never count you out, eh, Roran? Ha! That was just about the
finest fight I’ve ever seen. You must be the only man in history to have wrestled an Urgal.”

“Maybe not,” Roran said between sips of wine. “But I might be the only man who has survived the
experience.” He smiled as Carn laughed. Roran looked over at the Urgals, who were clustered around
Yarbog, talking with him in low grunts while two of their brethren wiped the grease and grime from
Yarbog’s limbs. Although the Urgals appeared subdued, they did not seem angry or resentful, so far as
he was able to judge, and he was confident that he would have no more trouble from them.

Despite the pain of his wounds, Roran felt pleased with the outcome of the match.This won’t be the
last fight between our two races, he thought,but as long as we can return safely to the Varden, the
Urgals won’t break off our alliance, at least not on account of me .

After taking one last sip, Roran stoppered the wineskin and handed it back to Carn, then shouted,
“Right, now stop standing around yammering like sheep and finish drawing up a list of what’s in those
wagons! Loften, round up the soldiers’ horses, if they haven’t already wandered too far away! Dazhgra,
see to the oxen. Make haste! Thorn and Murtagh could be flying here even now. Go on, snap to!

“And, Carn, where the blazes are my clothes?”

GENEALOGY

On the fourth day after leaving Farthen Dûr, Eragon and Saphira arrived in Ellesméra.

The sun was clear and bright overhead when the first of the city’s buildings—a narrow, twisting turret
with glittering windows that stood between three tall pine trees and was grown out of their intermingled
branches—came into view. Beyond the bark-sheathed turret, Eragon spotted the seemingly random
collection of clearings that marked the location of the sprawling city.

As Saphira planed over the uneven surface of the forest, Eragon quested with his mind for the
consciousness of Gilderien the Wise, who, as the wielder of the White Flame of Vándil, had protected
Ellesméra from the elves’ enemies for over two and a half millennia. Projecting his thoughts toward the
city, Eragon said in the ancient language,Gilderien-elda, may we pass?

A deep, calm voice sounded in Eragon’s mind.You may pass, Eragon Shadeslayer and Saphira
Brightscales. So long as you keep the peace, you are welcome to stay in Ellesméra .

Thank you, Gilderien-elda,said Saphira.

Her claws brushed the crowns of the dark-needled trees, which rose over three hundred feet above the
ground, as she glided across the pinewood city and headed toward the slope of inclined land on the other
side of Ellesméra. Between the latticework of branches below, Eragon caught brief glimpses of the
flowing shapes of buildings made of living wood, colorful beds of blooming flowers, rippling streams, the


auburn glow of a flameless lantern, and, once or twice, the pale flash of an elf’s upturned face.

Tilting her wings, Saphira soared up the slope of land until she reached the Crags of Tel’naeír, which
dropped over a thousand feet to the rolling forest at the base of the bare white cliff and extended for a
league in either direction. Then she turned right and flew north along the ridge of stone, flapping twice to
maintain her speed and altitude.

A grass-covered clearing appeared at the edge of the cliff. Set against the backdrop of the surrounding
trees was a modest, single-story house grown out of four different pines. A chuckling, gurgling stream
wandered out of the mossy forest and passed underneath the roots of one of the pines before
disappearing into Du Weldenvarden once again. And curled up next to the house, there lay the golden
dragon Glaedr, massive, glittering, his ivory teeth as thick around as Eragon’s chest, his claws like
scythes, his folded wings soft as suede, his muscled tail nearly as long as all of Saphira, and the striations
of his one visible eye sparkling like the rays within a star sapphire. The stump of his missing foreleg was
concealed on the other side of his body. A small round table and two chairs had been placed in front of
Glaedr. Oromis sat in the chair closest to him, the elf’s silver hair gleaming like metal in the sunlight.

Eragon leaned forward in his saddle as Saphira reared upright, slowing herself. She descended with a
jolt upon the sward of green grass and ran forward several steps, raking her wings backward before she
came to a halt.

His fingers clumsy from exhaustion, Eragon loosened the slipknots that bound the straps around his legs
and then attempted to climb down Saphira’s right front leg. As he lowered himself, his knees buckled and
he fell. He raised his hands to protect his face and landed upon all fours, scraping his shin on a rock
hidden within the grass. He grunted with pain and, feeling as stiff as an old man, started to push himself
onto his feet.

A hand entered his field of vision.

Eragon looked up and saw Oromis standing over him, a faint smile upon his timeless face. In the ancient
language, Oromis said, “Welcome back to Ellesméra, Eragon-finiarel. And you as well, Saphira
Brightscales, welcome. Welcome, both of you.”

Eragon took his hand, and Oromis pulled him upright without apparent effort. At first Eragon was unable
to find his tongue, for he had barely spoken aloud since they had left Farthen Dûr and because fatigue
blurred his mind. He touched the first two fingers of his right hand to his lips and, also in the ancient
language, said, “May good fortune rule over you, Oromis-elda,” and then he twisted his hand over his
sternum in the gesture of courtesy and respect the elves used.

“May the stars watch over you, Eragon,” replied Oromis.

Then Eragon repeated the ceremony with Glaedr. As always, the touch of the dragon’s sanguine
consciousness awed and humbled Eragon.

Saphira did not greet either Oromis or Glaedr; she remained where she was, her neck drooping until her
nose brushed the ground and her shoulders and haunches trembling as if with cold. Dry yellow foam
encrusted the corners of her open mouth. Her barbed tongue hung limp from between her fangs.

By way of explanation, Eragon said, “We ran into a headwind the day after we left Farthen Dûr, and . .
.” He fell silent as Glaedr lifted his giant head and swung it across the clearing until he was looking down
upon Saphira, who made no attempt to acknowledge his presence. Then Glaedr breathed out upon her,


fingers of flame burning within the pits of his nostrils. A sense of relief washed over Eragon as he felt
energy pour into Saphira, stilling her tremors and strengthening her limbs.

The flames in Glaedr’s nostrils vanished with a wisp of smoke.I went hunting this morning, he said, his
mental voice resonating throughout Eragon’s being.You will find what is left of my kills by the tree
with the white branch at the far end of the field. Eat what you want .

Silent gratitude emanated from Saphira. Dragging her limp tail across the grass, she crawled over to the
tree Glaedr had indicated and then settled down and began to tear at the carcass of a deer.

“Come,” said Oromis, and gestured toward the table and chairs. On the table was a tray with bowls of
fruit and nuts, half a round of cheese, a loaf of bread, a decanter of wine, and two crystal goblets. As
Eragon sat, Oromis indicated the decanter and asked, “Would you care for a drink to wash the dust from
your throat?”

“Yes, please,” said Eragon.

With an elegant motion, Oromis unstoppered the decanter and filled both goblets. He handed one to
Eragon and then settled back into his chair, arranging his white tunic with long, smooth fingers.

Eragon sipped the wine. It was mellow and tasted of cherries and plums. “Master, I—”

An upraised finger from Oromis stopped him. “Unless it is unbearably urgent, I would wait until Saphira
joins us before we discuss what has brought you here. Are you agreed?”

After a moment’s hesitation, Eragon nodded and concentrated upon eating, savoring the flavor of the
fresh fruit. Oromis seemed content to sit beside him in silence, drinking his wine and gazing out over the
edge of the Crags of Tel’naeír. Behind him, Glaedr watched over the proceedings like a living statue of
gold.

The better part of an hour passed before Saphira rose from her meal, crawled over to the stream, and
lapped the water for another ten minutes. Drops of water still clung to her jaws when she turned away
from the stream and, with a sigh, sprawled next to Eragon, her eyes heavy-lidded. She yawned, her teeth
flashing, then exchanged salutations with Oromis and Glaedr.Talk as you want, she said.However, do
not expect me to say much. I may fall asleep at any moment.

If you do, we shall wait for you to wake before we continue,said Glaedr.

That is most . . . kind,replied Saphira, and her eyelids drifted even lower.

“More wine?” Oromis asked, and lifted the decanter an inch off the table. When Eragon shook his head,
Oromis replaced the decanter, then pressed the tips of his fingers together, his round fingernails like
polished opals. He said, “You do not need to tell me what has befallen you these past weeks, Eragon.
Since Islanzadí left the forest, Arya has kept her informed of the news of the land, and every three days,
Islanzadí sends a runner from our army back to Du Weldenvarden. Thus, I know of your duel with
Murtagh and Thorn on the Burning Plains. I know of your trip to Helgrind and how you punished the
butcher from your village. And I know you attended the dwarves’ clanmeet in Farthen Dûr and the
outcome thereof. Whatever you wish to say, then, you may say without fear of having to educate me
about your recent doings.”

Eragon rolled a plump blueberry in the palm of his hand. “Do you know of Elva and what happened


when I tried to free her of my curse?”

“Yes, even that. You may not have succeeded in removing the whole of the spell from her, but you paid
your debt to the child, and that is what a Dragon Rider is supposed to do: fulfill his obligations, no matter
how small or difficult they be.”

“She still feels the pain of those around her.”

“But now it is by her own choice,” said Oromis. “No longer does your magic force it upon her. . . . You
did not come here to seek my opinion concerning Elva. What is it that weighs upon your heart, Eragon?
Ask what you will, and I promise I shall answer all of your questions to the best of my knowledge.”

“What,” said Eragon, “if I don’t know the right questions to ask?”

A twinkle appeared in Oromis’s gray eyes. “Ah, you begin to think like an elf. You must trust us as your
mentors to teach you and Saphira those things of which you are ignorant. And you must also trust us to
decide when it is appropriate to broach those subjects, for there are many elements of your training that
should not be spoken of out of turn.”

Eragon placed the blueberry in the precise center of the tray, then in a quiet but firm voice said, “It
seems as if there is much you have not spoken of.”

For a moment, the only sounds were the rustle of branches and the burble of the stream and the chatter
of distant squirrels.

If you have a quarrel with us, Eragon,said Glaedr,then give voice to it and do not gnaw on your
anger like a dry old bone.

Saphira shifted her position, and Eragon imagined he heard a growl from her. He glanced at her, and
then, fighting to control the emotions coursing through him, he asked, “When I was last here, did you
know who my father was?”

Oromis nodded once. “We did.”

“And did you know that Murtagh was my brother?”

Oromis nodded once more. “We did, but—”

“Then why didn’t you tell me!” exclaimed Eragon, and jumped to his feet, knocking over his chair. He
pounded a fist against his hip, strode several feet away, and stared at the shadows within the tangled
forest. Whirling around, Eragon’s anger swelled as he saw that Oromis appeared as calm as before.
“Were you ever going to tell me? Did you keep the truth about my family a secret because you were
afraid it would distract me from my training? Or was it that you were afraid I would become like my
father?” A worse thought occurred to Eragon. “Or did you not even consider it important enough to
mention? And what of Brom? Did he know? Did he choose Carvahall to hide in because of me, because
I was the son of his enemy? You can’t expect me to believe it was coincidence he and I happened to be
living only a few miles apart and that Arya justhappened to send Saphira’s egg to me in the Spine.”

“What Arya did was an accident,” asserted Oromis. “She had no knowledge of you then.”

Eragon gripped the pommel of his dwarf sword, every muscle in his body as hard as iron. “When Brom


first saw Saphira, I remember he said something to himself about being unsure whether ‘this’ was a farce
or a tragedy. At the time, I thought he was referring to the fact that a common farmer like myself had
become the first new Rider in over a hundred years. But that’s not what he meant, was it? He was
wondering whether it was a farce or a tragedy that Morzan’s youngest son should be the one to take up
the Riders’ mantle!

“Is that why you and Brom trained me, to be nothing more than a weapon against Galbatorix so that I
may atone for the villainy of my father? Is that all I am to you, a balancing of the scales?” Before Oromis
could respond, Eragon swore and said, “My whole life has been a lie! Since the moment I was born, no
one but Saphira has wanted me: not my mother, not Garrow, not Aunt Marian, not even Brom. Brom
showed interest in me only because of Morzan and Saphira. I have always been an inconvenience.
Whatever you think of me, though, I amnot my father, nor my brother, and I refuse to follow in their
footsteps.” Placing his hands on the edge of the table, Eragon leaned forward. “I’m not about to betray
the elves or the dwarves or the Varden to Galbatorix, if that’s what you are worried about. I will do what
I must, but from now on, you have neither my loyalty nor my trust. I will not—”

The ground and the air shook as Glaedr growled, his upper lip pulling back to reveal the full length of his
fangs.You have more reason to trust us than anyone else, hatchling, he said, his voice thundering in
Eragon’s mind.If not for our efforts, you would be long dead.

Then, to Eragon’s surprise, Saphira said to Oromis and Glaedr,Tell him, and it alarmed him to feel the
distress in her thoughts.

Saphira?he asked, puzzled.Tell me what?

She ignored him.This arguing is without cause. Do not prolong Eragon’s discomfort anymore .

One of Oromis’s slanted eyebrows rose. “You know?”

I know.

“You know what?” Eragon bellowed, on the verge of tearing his sword from its sheath and threatening
all of them until they explained themselves.

With one slim finger, Oromis pointed toward the fallen chair. “Sit.” When Eragon remained standing, too
angry and full of resentment to obey, Oromis sighed. “I understand this is difficult for you, Eragon, but if
you insist upon asking questions and then refuse to listen to the answers, frustration will be your only
reward. Now, please sit, so we can talk about this in a civilized manner.”

Glaring, Eragon righted the chair and dropped into it. “Why?” he asked. “Why didn’t you tell me that my
father was Morzan, the first of the Forsworn?”

“In the first place,” said Oromis, “we shall be fortunate if you are anything like your father, which,
indeed, I believe you are. And, as I was about to say before you interrupted me, Murtagh is not your
brother, but rather your half brother.”

The world seemed to tilt around Eragon; the sensation of vertigo was so intense, he had to grab the edge
of the table to steady himself. “My half brother . . . But then, who . . . ?”

Oromis plucked a blackberry from a bowl, contemplated it for a moment, and then ate it. “Glaedr and I
did not wish to keep this a secret from you, but we had no choice. We both promised, with the most


binding of oaths, that we would never reveal to you the identity of your father or of your half brother, nor
discuss your lineage, unless you had discovered the truth on your own or unless the identity of your
relatives had placed you in danger. What transpired between you and Murtagh during the Battle of the
Burning Plains satisfies enough of those requirements that we can now speak freely on this topic.”

Trembling with barely restrained emotion, Eragon said, “Oromis-elda, if Murtagh is my half brother, then
who is my father?”

Look into your heart, Eragon,said Glaedr.You already know who he is, and you have known for a
long time.

Eragon shook his head. “I don’t know! I don’t know! Please . . .”

A gout of smoke and flame jetted from Glaedr’s nostrils as he snorted.Is it not obvious? Your father is
Brom .

TWOLOVERSDOOMED

Eragon gaped at the gold dragon.

“But how?” he exclaimed. Before either Glaedr or Oromis could respond, Eragon whirled toward
Saphira and, with both his mind and his voice, he said, “You knew? You knew, and yet you let me
believe Morzan was my father this whole time, even though it . . . even though I—I . . .” His chest
heaving, Eragon stuttered and trailed off, unable to speak coherently. Unbidden, memories of Brom
flooded through him, washing away his other thoughts. He reconsidered the meaning of Brom’s every
word and expression, and in that instant, a sense of rightness settled over Eragon. He still wanted
explanations, but he did not need them in order to determine the veracity of Glaedr’s claim, for in his
bones, Eragon felt the truth of what Glaedr had said.

Eragon started as Oromis touched him on the shoulder. “Eragon, you need to calm yourself,” said the elf
in a soothing tone. “Remember the techniques I taught you for meditating. Control your breathing, and
concentrate upon letting the tension drain out of your limbs into the ground beneath you. . . . Yes, like
that. Now again, and breathe deeply.”

Eragon’s hands grew still and his heartbeat slowed as he followed Oromis’s instructions. Once his
thoughts had cleared, he looked at Saphira again and in a soft voice said, “You knew?”

Saphira lifted her head from the ground.Oh, Eragon, I wanted to tell you. It pained me to see how
Murtagh’s words tormented you and yet to be unable to help you. I tried to help—I tried so many
times—but like Oromis and Glaedr, I too swore in the ancient language to keep Brom’s identity a
secret from you, and I could not break my oath .

“Wh-when did he tell you?” Eragon asked, so agitated that he continued speaking out loud.


The day after the Urgals attacked us outside of Teirm, while you were still unconscious.

“Was that also when he told you how to contact the Varden in Gil’ead?”

Yes. Before I knew what Brom wished to say, he had me swear to never speak of this with you
unless you found out on your own. To my regret, I agreed.

“Is there anything else he told you?” demanded Eragon, his anger rising again. “Any other secrets I ought
to know, like that Murtagh isn’t my only sibling, or perhaps how to defeat Galbatorix?”

During the two days Brom and I spent hunting the Urgals, Brom recounted the details of his life
to me so that if he died, and if ever you learned of your relation to him, his son could know what
kind of a man he was and why he had acted as he did. Also, Brom gave me a gift for you.

A gift?

A memory of him speaking to you as your father and not as Brom the storyteller.

“Before Saphira shares this memory with you, however,” said Oromis, and Eragon realized she had
allowed the elf to hear her words, “it would be best, I think, if you knew how this came to pass. Will you
listen to me for a while, Eragon?”

Eragon hesitated, unsure of what he wanted, then nodded.

Lifting his crystal goblet, Oromis drank of his wine, then returned the goblet to the table and said: “As
you know, both Brom and Morzan were my apprentices. Brom, who was the younger by three years,
held Morzan in such high esteem, he allowed Morzan to belittle him, order him about, and otherwise treat
him most shamefully.”

In a raspy voice, Eragon said, “It’s hard to imagine Brom letting anyone order him about.”

Oromis inclined his head in a quick, birdlike dip. “And yet, so it was. Brom loved Morzan as a brother,
despite his behavior. It was only once Morzan betrayed the Riders to Galbatorix and the Forsworn killed
Saphira, Brom’s dragon, that Brom realized the true nature of Morzan’s character. As strong as Brom’s
affection for Morzan had been, it was like a candle before an inferno compared with the hatred that
replaced it. Brom swore to thwart Morzan however and wherever he could, to undo his
accomplishments and reduce his ambitions to bitter regrets. I cautioned Brom against a path so full of
hate and violence, but he was mad with grief from the death of Saphira, and he would not listen to me.

“In the decades that followed, Brom’s hatred never weakened, nor did he falter in his efforts to depose
Galbatorix, kill the Forsworn, and, above all else, to repay Morzan the hurts he had suffered. Brom was
persistence embodied, his name a nightmare for the Forsworn and a beacon of hope for those who still
had the spirit to resist the Empire.” Oromis looked toward the white line of the horizon and took another
draught of his wine. “I am rather proud of what he achieved on his own and without the aid of his dragon.
It is always heartening for a teacher to see one of his students excel, however it might be. . . . But I
digress. It so happened, then, that some twenty years ago, the Varden began to receive reports from
their spies within the Empire about the activities of a mysterious woman known only as the Black Hand.”

“My mother,” said Eragon.

“Your mother and Murtagh’s,” said Oromis. “At first the Varden knew nothing about her, save that she


was extremely dangerous and that she was loyal to the Empire. In time, and after a great deal of
bloodshed, it became apparent that she served Morzan, and Morzan alone, and that he had come to
depend upon her to carry out his will throughout the Empire. Upon learning of this, Brom set out to kill
the Black Hand and so to strike at Morzan. Since the Varden could not predict where your mother might
appear next, Brom traveled to Morzan’s castle and spied upon it until he was able to devise a means of
infiltrating the hold.”

“Where was Morzan’s castle?”

“Is,notwas; the castle still stands. Galbatorix uses it for himself now. It is situated among the foothills of
the Spine, near the northwestern shore of Leona Lake, hidden well away from the rest of the land.”

Eragon said, “Jeod told me that Brom snuck into the castle by pretending to be one of the servants.”

“He did, and it was no easy task. Morzan had impregnated his fortress with hundreds of spells designed
to protect him from his enemies. He also forced everyone who served him to swear oaths of fealty, and
often with their true names. However, after much experimentation, Brom managed to find a flaw in
Morzan’s wards that allowed him to procure a position as a gardener on his estate, and it was in that
guise he first met your mother.”

Glancing down at his hands, Eragon said, “And then he seduced her to hurt Morzan, I suppose.”

“Not at all,” replied Oromis. “That may have been his intention to begin with, but then something
happened neither he nor your mother anticipated: they fell in love. Whatever affection your mother once
had for Morzan had vanished by then, expunged by his cruel treatment of her and their newborn child,
Murtagh. I do not know the exact sequence of events, but at some point Brom revealed his true identity
to your mother. Instead of betraying him, she began to supply the Varden with information about
Galbatorix, Morzan, and the rest of the Empire.”

“But,” said Eragon, “didn’t Morzan have her swear oaths of fealty to him in the ancient language? How
could she turn against him?”

A smile appeared on Oromis’s thin lips. “She could because Morzan allowed her somewhat more
freedom than his other servants so that she could use her own ingenuity and initiative while carrying out
his orders. In his arrogance, Morzan believed that her love for him would ensure her loyalty better than
any oath. Also, she was not the same woman who had bound herself to Morzan; becoming a mother and
meeting Brom altered her character to such a degree that her true name changed, which released her
from her previous commitments. If Morzan had been more careful—if, for example, he had cast a spell
that would alert him if ever she failed to abide by her promises—he would have known the moment he
lost control over her. But that was always a shortcoming of Morzan’s; he would devise a cunning spell,
but then it would fail because, in his impatience, he overlooked some crucial detail.”

Eragon frowned. “Why didn’t my mother leave Morzan once she had the chance?”

“After all she had done in Morzan’s name, she felt it was her duty to help the Varden. But more
importantly, she could not bring herself to abandon Murtagh to his father.”

“Couldn’t she have taken him with her?”

“If it had been within her power, I am sure she would have. Morzan realized that the child gave him a
vast amount of control over your mother. He forced her to surrender Murtagh to a wet nurse and only


allowed her to visit him at infrequent intervals. What Morzan did not know is that, during those intervals,
she also visited Brom.”

Oromis turned to watch a pair of swallows cavorting in the blue sky. In profile, his delicate, slanted
features reminded Eragon of a hawk or a sleek cat. Still gazing at the swallows, Oromis said, “Not even
your mother could anticipate where Morzan would send her next, nor when she could return to his castle.
Therefore, Brom had to remain on Morzan’s estate for extended lengths of time if he wished to see her.
For nigh on three years, Brom served as one of Morzan’s gardeners. Now and then, he would slip away
to send a message to the Varden or to communicate with his spies throughout the Empire, but other than
that, he did not leave the castle grounds.”

“Three years! Wasn’t he afraid that Morzan might see him and recognize him?”

Oromis lowered his gaze from the heavens, returning it to Eragon. “Brom was most adept at disguising
himself, and it had been many years since he and Morzan had last stood face to face.”

“Ah.” Eragon twisted his goblet between his fingers, studying how the light refracted through the crystal.
“Then what happened?”

“Then,” said Oromis, “one of Brom’s agents in Teirm made contact with a young scholar by the name of
Jeod who wished to join the Varden and who claimed to have discovered evidence of a hitherto-secret
tunnel that led into the elf-built portion of the castle in Urû’baen. Brom rightly felt that Jeod’s discovery
was too important to ignore, so he packed his bags, made his excuses to his fellow servants, and then
departed for Teirm with all possible haste.”

“What of my mother?”

“She had left a month before on another of Morzan’s missions.”

Struggling to weld a cohesive whole out of the fragmented accounts he had heard from various people,
Eragon said, “So then . . . Brom met with Jeod, and once he was convinced the tunnel was real, he
arranged for one of the Varden to attempt to steal the three dragon eggs Galbatorix was holding in
Urû’baen.”

Oromis’s face darkened. “Unfortunately, for reasons that have never become entirely clear, the man they
selected for the task, a certain Hefring of Furnost, succeeded in filching only one egg—Saphira’s—from
Galbatorix’s treasury, and once he had possession of it, he fled from both the Varden and Galbatorix’s
servants. Because of his betrayal, Brom had to spend the next seven months chasing Hefring back and
forth across the land in a desperate attempt to recapture Saphira.”

“And during that time, my mother traveled in secret to Carvahall, where she gave birth to me five months
later?”

Oromis nodded. “You were conceived just before your mother set forth upon her last mission. As a
result, Brom knew nothing of her condition while he was pursuing Hefring and Saphira’s egg. . . . When
Brom and Morzan finally confronted each other in Gil’ead, Morzan asked Brom whether he had been
responsible for the disappearance of his Black Hand. It is understandable that Morzan would suspect
Brom’s involvement, since Brom had arranged the deaths of several of the Forsworn. Brom, of course,
immediately concluded that something terrible had befallen your mother. He later told me it was that
belief which gave him the strength and fortitude he needed to kill Morzan and his dragon. Once they were
dead, Brom took Saphira’s egg from Morzan’s corpse—for Morzan had already located Hefring and


seized the egg from him—and then Brom left the city, pausing only long enough to hide Saphira where he
knew the Varden would eventually find her.”

“So that’s why Jeod thought Brom died in Gil’ead,” said Eragon.

Again Oromis nodded. “Stricken by fear, Brom dared not wait for his companions. Even if your mother
was alive and well, Brom worried that Galbatorix would decide to make Selena his own Black Hand and
that she would never again have the chance to escape her service to the Empire.”

Eragon felt tears wet his eyes.How Brom must have loved her, to leave everyone behind as soon as
he knew she was in danger.

“From Gil’ead, Brom rode straight to Morzan’s estate, stopping only to sleep. For all his speed,
however, he was still too slow. When he reached the castle, he discovered that your mother had returned
a fortnight prior, sick and weary from her mysterious journey. Morzan’s healers tried to save her, but in
spite of their efforts, she had passed into the void just hours before Brom arrived at the castle.”

“He never saw her again?” Eragon asked, his throat tightening.

“Never again.” Oromis paused, and his expression softened. “Losing her was, I think, almost as difficult
for Brom as losing his dragon, and it quenched much of the fire within his soul. He did not give up,
though, nor did he go mad as he had for a time when the Forsworn slew Saphira’s namesake. Instead, he
decided to discover the reason for your mother’s death and to punish those who were responsible if he
could. He questioned Morzan’s healers and forced them to describe your mother’s ailments. From what
they said, and also from gossip he heard among the servants on the estate, Brom guessed the truth about
your mother’s pregnancy. Possessed of that hope, he rode to the one place he knew to look: your
mother’s home in Carvahall. And there he found you in the care of your aunt and uncle.

“Brom did not stay in Carvahall, however. As soon as he assured himself that no one in Carvahall knew
your mother had been the Black Hand and that you were in no imminent danger, Brom returned in secret
to Farthen Dûr, where he revealed himself to Deynor, who was the leader of the Varden at that time.
Deynor was astounded to see him, for until that moment, everyone had believed that Brom had perished
in Gil’ead. Brom convinced Deynor to keep his presence a secret from all but a select few, and then—”

Eragon raised a finger. “But why? Why pretend to be dead?”

“Brom wanted to live long enough to help instruct the new Rider, and he knew the only way he could
avoid being assassinated in retaliation for killing Morzan would be if Galbatorix believed he was already
dead and buried. Also, Brom hoped to avoid attracting unwarranted attention to Carvahall. He intended
to settle there in order to be close to you, as indeed he did, but he was determined that the Empire
should not learn of your existence as a result.

“While in Farthen Dûr, Brom helped the Varden negotiate the agreement with Queen Islanzadí over how
the elves and the humans would share custody of the egg and how the new Rider would be trained, if and
when the egg should hatch. Then Brom accompanied Arya as she carried the egg from Farthen Dûr to
Ellesméra. When he arrived, he told Glaedr and me what I have now told you, so that the truth about
your parentage would not be forgotten if he should die. That was the last time I ever saw him. From here,
Brom returned to Carvahall, where he introduced himself as a bard and storyteller. What happened
thereafter, you know better than I.”

Oromis fell silent, and for a time, no one spoke.


Staring at the ground, Eragon reviewed everything Oromis had told him and tried to sort out his feelings.
At last he said, “And Brom really is my father, not Morzan? I mean, if my mother was Morzan’s consort,
then . . .” He trailed off, too embarrassed to continue.

“You are your father’s son,” Oromis said, “and your father is Brom. Of that there is no doubt.”

“No doubt whatsoever?”

Oromis shook his head. “None.”

A sense of giddiness gripped Eragon, and he realized he had been holding his breath. Exhaling, he said,
“I think I understand why”—he paused to fill his lungs—“why Brom didn’t say anything about this before
I found Saphira’s egg, but why didn’t he tell me afterward? And why did he swear you and Saphira to
such secrecy? . . . Didn’t he want to claim me as his son? Was he ashamed of me?”

“I cannot pretend to know the reasons for everything Brom did, Eragon. However, of this much I am
confident: Brom wanted nothing more than to name you his son and to raise you, but he dared not reveal
that you were related, lest the Empire should find out and try to hurt him through you. His prudence was
warranted too. Look how Galbatorix strove to capture your cousin so that he could use Roran to force
you to surrender.”

“Brom could have told my uncle,” Eragon protested. “Garrow wouldn’t have betrayed Brom to the
Empire.”

“Think, Eragon. If you had been living with Brom, and if word of Brom’s survival had reached the ears
of Galbatorix’s spies, you both would have had to flee Carvahall for fear of your lives. By keeping the
truth hidden from you, Brom hoped to protect you from those dangers.”

“He didn’t succeed. We had to flee Carvahall anyway.”

“Yes,” said Oromis. “Brom’s mistake, as it were, although I judge it has yielded more good than ill, was
that he could not bear to separate himself entirely from you. If he had had the strength to refrain from
returning to Carvahall, you never would have found Saphira’s egg, the Ra’zac would not have killed your
uncle, and many things that were not, would have been; and many things that are, would not be. He could
not cut you out of his heart, though.”

Eragon clenched his jaw as a tremor coursed through him. “And after he learned Saphira had hatched
for me?”

Oromis hesitated, and his calm expression became somewhat troubled. “I am not sure, Eragon. It may
have been that Brom was still trying to protect you from his enemies, and he did not tell you for the same
reason he did not bring you to the Varden straight-away: because it would have been more than you
were ready for. Perhaps he was planning to tell you just before you went to the Varden. If I had to guess,
though, I would guess that Brom held his tongue not because he was ashamed of you but because he had
become accustomed to living with his secrets and was loath to part with them. And because—and this is
no more than speculation—because he was uncertain how you might react to his revelation. By your own
account, you were not that well acquainted with Brom before you left Carvahall with him. It is quite
possible he was afraid that you might hate him if he told you he was your father.”

“Hate him?” exclaimed Eragon. “I wouldn’t have hated him. Although . . . I might not have believed


him.”

“And would you have trusted him after such a revelation?”

Eragon bit the inside of his cheek.No, I wouldn’t have .

Continuing, Oromis said, “Brom did the best he could in what were incredibly trying circumstances.
Before all else, it was his responsibility to keep the two of you alive and to teach and advise you, Eragon,
so that you would not use your power for selfish means, as Galbatorix has done. In that, Brom acquitted
himself with distinction. He may not have been the father you wished him to be, but he gave you as great
an inheritance as any son has ever had.”

“It was no more than he would have done for whoever became the new Rider.”

“That does not diminish its value,” Oromis pointed out. “But you are mistaken; Brom did more for you
than he would have for anyone else. You need only think of how he sacrificed himself to save your life to
know the truth of that.”

With the nail of his right index finger, Eragon picked at the edge of the table, following a faint ridge
formed by one of the rings in the wood. “And it really was an accident that Arya sent Saphira to me?”

“It was,” Oromis confirmed. “But it was not entirely a coincidence. Instead of transporting the egg to the
father, Arya made it appear before the son.”

“How could that be if she had no knowledge of me?”

Oromis’s thin shoulders rose and fell. “Despite thousands of years of study, we still cannot predict or
explain all of the effects of magic.”

Eragon continued to finger the small ridge in the edge of the table.I have a father, he thought.I watched
him die, and I had no idea who he was to me. . . . “My parents,” he said, “were they ever married?”

“I know why you ask, Eragon, and I do not know if my answer will satisfy you. Marriage is not an elvish
custom, and the subtleties of it often escape me. No one joined Brom’s and Selena’s hands in marriage,
but I know that they considered themselves to be husband and wife. If you are wise, you will not worry
that others of your race may call you a bastard but rather be content to know that you are your parents’
child and that they both gave their lives that you might live.”

It surprised Eragon how calm he felt. His entire life he had speculated about the identity of his father.
When Murtagh had claimed it was Morzan, the revelation had shocked Eragon as deeply as had the
death of Garrow. Glaedr’s counterclaim that Eragon’s father was Brom had also shocked him, but the
shock did not seem to have lasted, perhaps because, this time, the news was not as upsetting. Calm as he
was, Eragon thought that it might be many years before he was certain of his feelings toward either of his
parents.My father was a Rider and my mother was Morzan’s consort and Black Hand .

“Could I tell Nasuada?” he asked.

Oromis spread his hands. “Tell whomever you wish; the secret is now yours to do with as you please. I
doubt you would be in any more danger if the whole world knew you were Brom’s heir.”

“Murtagh,” Eragon said. “He believes we are full brothers. He told me so in the ancient language.”


“And I am sure Galbatorix does as well. It was the Twins who figured out that Murtagh’s mother and
your mother were one and the same person, and this they conveyed to the king. But they could not have
informed him of Brom’s involvement, for there was no one among the Varden who was privy to that
information.”

Eragon glanced up as a pair of swallows swooped by overhead, and he allowed himself a wry half smile.

“Why do you smile?” Oromis asked.

“I’m not sure you would understand.”

The elf folded his hands in his lap. “I might not; that is true. But then, you cannot know for certain unless
you try to explain.”

It took Eragon a while to find the words he needed. “When I was younger, before . . . all ofthis ”—he
gestured at Saphira and Oromis and Glaedr and the world in general—“I used to amuse myself by
imagining that, because of her great wit and beauty, my mother had been taken in among the courts of
Galbatorix’s nobles. I imagined that she had traveled from city to city and supped with the earls and
ladies in their halls and that . . . well, she had fallen desperately in love with a rich and powerful man, but
for some reason, she was forced to hide me from him, so she gave me to Garrow and Marian for
safekeeping, and one day she would return and tell me who I was and that she had never wanted to leave
me behind.”

“That is not so different from what happened,” said Oromis.

“No, it isn’t, but . . . I imagined that my mother and my father were people of importance and I was
someone of importance as well. Fate gave me what I wanted, but the truth of it is not as grand or as
happy as I thought it would be. . . . I was smiling at my own ignorance, I suppose, and also at the
unlikeliness of everything that has befallen me.”

A light breeze swept across the clearing, feathering the grass at their feet and stirring the branches of the
forest around them. Eragon watched the fluttering of the grass for a few moments, then slowly asked,
“Was my mother a good person?”

“I could not say, Eragon. The events of her life were complicated. It would be foolish and arrogant of
me to presume to pass judgment on one I know so little of.”

“But I need to know!” Eragon clasped his hands, pressing his fingers between the calluses on his
knuckles. “When I asked Brom if he had known her, he said that she was proud and dignified and that
she always helped the poor and those less fortunate than her. How could she, though? How could she be
that person and also the Black Hand? Jeod told me stories about some of the things—horrible, terrible
things—she did while she was in Morzan’s service. . . . Was she evil, then? Did she not care if Galbatorix
ruled or not? Why did she go with Morzan in the first place?”

Oromis paused. “Love can be a terrible curse, Eragon. It can make you overlook even the largest flaws
in a person’s behavior. I doubt that your mother was fully aware of Morzan’s true nature when she left
Carvahall with him, and once she had, he would not have allowed her to disobey his wishes. She became
his slave in all but name, and it was only by changing her very identity that she was able to escape his
control.”


“But Jeod said that she enjoyed what she did as the Black Hand.”

An expression of faint disdain altered Oromis’s features. “Accounts of past atrocities are often
exaggerated and distorted. That much you should keep in mind. No one but your mother knows exactly
what she did, nor why, nor how she felt about it, and she is not still among the living to explain herself.”

“Whom should I believe, though?” pleaded Eragon. “Brom or Jeod?”

“When you asked Brom about your mother, he told you what he thought were her most important
qualities. My advice would be to trust in his knowledge of her. If that does not quell your doubts,
remember that whatever crimes she may have committed while acting as the Hand of Morzan, ultimately
your mother sided with the Varden and went to extraordinary lengths to protect you. Knowing that, you
should not torment yourself further about the nature of her character.”

Propelled by the breeze, a spider hanging from a gossamer strand of silk drifted past Eragon, rising and
falling on the invisible eddies of air. When the spider had floated out of view, Eragon said, “The first time
we visited Tronjheim, the fortuneteller Angela told me that it was Brom’s wyrd to fail at everything he
attempted, except for killing Morzan.”

Oromis inclined his head. “One might think that. Another might conclude that Brom achieved many great
and difficult things. It depends upon how you choose to view the world. The words of fortunetellers are
rarely easy to decipher. It has been my experience that their predictions are never conducive to peace of
mind. If you wish to be happy, Eragon, think not of what is to come nor of that which you have no
control over but rather of the now and of that which you are able to change.”

A thought occurred to Eragon then. “Blagden,” he said, referring to the white raven who was Queen
Islanzadí’s companion. “He knows about Brom as well, doesn’t he?”

One of Oromis’s sharp eyebrows lifted. “Does he? I never spoke of it to him. He is a fickle creature and
not to be relied upon.”

“The day Saphira and I left for the Burning Plains, he recited a riddle to me. . . . I can’t remember every
line, but it was something about one of two being one, while one might be two. I think he might have been
hinting that Murtagh and I only share a single parent.”

“It is not impossible,” said Oromis. “Blagden was here in Ellesméra when Brom told me about you. I
would not be surprised if that sharp-beaked thief happened to be perched in a nearby tree during our
conversation. Eavesdropping is an unfortunate habit of his. It might also be that his riddle was the result of
one of his sporadic fits of foresight.”

A moment later, Glaedr stirred, and Oromis turned and glanced back at the golden dragon. The elf rose
from his chair with a graceful motion, saying, “Fruit, nuts, and bread are fine fare, but after your trip, you
should have something more substantial to fill your belly. I have a soup that needs tending simmering in
my hut, but please, do not bestir yourself. I will bring it to you when it is ready.” His footsteps soft upon
the grass, Oromis walked to his bark-covered house and disappeared inside. As the carved door closed,
Glaedr huffed out his breath and closed his eyes, seeming to fall asleep.

And all was silent, save the rustle of the wind-tossed branches.


INHERITANCE

Eragon remained sitting at the round table for several minutes, then he stood and walked to the edge of
the Crags of Tel’naeír, where he gazed out over the rolling forest a thousand feet below. With the tip of
his left boot, he pushed a pebble over the cliff and watched it bounce off the slanted face of the stone
until it vanished into the depths of the canopy.

A branch cracked as Saphira approached from behind. She crouched by his side, her scales painting
him with hundreds of shifting flecks of blue light, and stared in the same direction as he.Are you angry
with me? she asked.

No, of course not. I understand that you could not break your oath in the ancient language. . . . I
just wish that Brom could have told me this himself and that he hadn’t felt it necessary to hide the
truth from me.

She swung her head toward him.And how do you feel, Eragon?

You know as well as I.

A few minutes ago, I did, but not now. You have grown still, and looking into your mind is like
peering into a lake so deep, I cannot see the bottom. What is in you, little one? Is it rage? Is it
happiness? Or have you no emotions to give?

What is in me is acceptance,he said, and turned to face her.I cannot change who my parents are; I
reconciled myself with that after the Burning Plains. What is is, and no amount of gnashing teeth
on my part will change that. I am . . . glad, I think, to consider Brom my father. But I’m not sure. .
. . It’s too much to grasp all at once .

Perhaps what I have to give you will help. Would you like to see the memory Brom left for you, or
would you prefer to wait?

No, no waiting,he said.If we delay, you may never have the opportunity .

Then close your eyes and let me show you what once was.

Eragon did as she directed, and from Saphira, there flowed a stream of sensations: sights, sounds,
smells, and more, everything that she had been experiencing at the time of the memory.

Before him, Eragon beheld a glade in the forest somewhere among the foothills piled against the western
side of the Spine. The grass was thick and lush, and veils of chartreuse lichen hung from the tall,
drooping, moss-covered trees. Due to the rains that swept inland from the ocean, the woods were far
greener and wetter than those of Palancar Valley. As seen through Saphira’s eyes, the greens and reds
were more subdued than they would have been to Eragon, while every hue of blue shone with additional
intensity. The smell of moist soil and punky wood suffused the air.

And in the center of the glade lay a fallen tree, and upon the fallen tree sat Brom.

The hood of the old man’s robe was pulled back to expose his bare head. Across his lap lay his sword.


His twisted, rune-carved staff stood propped against the log. The ring Aren glittered on his right hand.

For a long while, Brom did not move, and then he squinted up at the sky, his hooked nose casting a long
shadow across his face. His voice rasped, and Eragon swayed, feeling disjointed in time.

Brom said, “Ever the sun traces its path from horizon to horizon, and ever the moon follows, and ever
the days roll past without care for the lives they grind away, one by one.” Lowering his eyes, Brom gazed
straight at Saphira and, through her, Eragon. “Try though they might, no being escapes death forever, not
even the elves or the spirits. To all, there is an end. If you are watching me, Eragon, then my end has
come and I am dead and you know that I am your father.”

From the leather pouch by his side, Brom drew forth his pipe, filled it with cardus weed, then lit it with a
soft muttering of “Brisingr.” He puffed on the pipe several times to set the fire before he resumed talking.
“If you do see this, Eragon, I hope that you are safe and happy and that Galbatorix is dead. However, I
realize that’s unlikely, if for no other reason than you are a Dragon Rider, and a Dragon Rider may never
rest while there is injustice in the land.”

A chuckle escaped Brom and he shook his head, his beard rippling like water. “Ah, I have not the time
to say even half of what I would like; I would be twice my current age before I finished. In the pursuit of
brevity, I shall assume that Saphira has already told you how your mother and I met, how Selena died,
and how I came to be in Carvahall. I wish that you and I could have this talk face to face, Eragon, and
perhaps we still shall and Saphira will have no need to share this memory with you, but I doubt it. The
sorrows of my years press on me, Eragon, and I feel a cold creeping into my limbs the likes of which has
never troubled me before. I think it is because I know it is now your turn to take up the standard. There
is much I still hope to accomplish, but none of it is for myself, only for you, and you shall eclipse
everything I have done. Of that, I am sure. Before my grave closes over me, though, I wanted to be able,
at least this once, to call you my son. . . . My son. . . . Your whole life, Eragon, I have longed to reveal to
you who I was. It has been a pleasure like no other for me to watch you growing up, but also a torture
like no other because of the secret I held in my heart.”

Brom laughed then, a harsh, barking sound. “Well, I didn’t exactly manage to keep you safe from the
Empire, now did I? If you are still wondering who was responsible for Garrow’s death, you need look no
further, for here he sits. It was my own foolishness. I should never have returned to Carvahall. And now
look: Garrow dead, and you a Dragon Rider. I warn you, Eragon, beware of whom you fall in love with,
for fate seems to have a morbid interest in our family.”

Wrapping his lips around the stem of his pipe, Brom drew on the smoldering cardus weed several times,
blowing the chalk-white smoke off to one side. The pungent smell was heavy in Saphira’s nostrils. Brom
said, “I have my share of regrets, but you are not one of them, Eragon. You may occasionally behave like
a moon-addled fool, such as letting these blasted Urgals escape, but you are no more of an idiot than I
was at your age.” He nodded. “Less of an idiot, in fact. I am proud to have you as my son, Eragon,
prouder than you will ever know. I never thought that you would become a Rider as I was, nor wished
that future upon you, but seeing you with Saphira, ah, it makes me feel like crowing at the sun like a
rooster.”

Brom drew on the pipe again. “I realize you may be angry at me for keeping this from you. I can’t say I
would have been happy to discover the name of my own father this way. Whether you like it or not,
though, we are family, you and I. Since I could not give you the care I owed you as your father, I will
give you the one thing I can instead, and that is advice. Hate me if you wish, Eragon, but heed what I
have to say, for I know whereof I speak.”


With his free hand, Brom grasped the sheath of his sword, the veins prominent on the back of his hand.
He fixed the pipe in one corner of his mouth. “Right. Now, my advice is twofold. Whatever you do,
protect those you care for. Without them, life is more miserable than you can imagine. An obvious
statement, I know, but no less true because of it. There, that is the first part of my advice. As for the rest
. . . If you are so fortunate as to have already killed Galbatorix—or ifanyone has succeeded in slitting
that traitor’s throat—then congratulations. Ifnot, then you must realize that Galbatorix is your greatest
and most dangerous enemy. Until he is dead, neither you nor Saphira will ever find peace. You may run
to the farthest corners of the earth, but unless you join the Empire, one day you will have to confront
Galbatorix. I am sorry, Eragon, but that is the truth of it. I have fought many magicians, and several of the
Forsworn, and so far, I have always defeated my opponents.” The lines on Brom’s forehead deepened.
“Well, all but once, but that was because I was not yet fully grown. Anyway, the reason I have always
emerged triumphant is that I use my brain, unlike most. I am not a strong spellcaster, nor are you,
compared with Galbatorix, but when it comes to a wizards’ duel,intelligence is even more important
than strength. The way to defeat another magician is not by battering blindly against his mind. No! In
order to ensure victory, you have to figure out how your enemy interprets information and reacts to the
world. Then you will know his weaknesses, and there you strike. The trick isn’t inventing a spell no one
else has ever thought of before; the trick is finding a spell your enemy has overlooked and using it against
him. The trick isn’t plowing your way through the barriers in someone’s mind; the trick is slipping
underneath or around the barriers. No one is omniscient, Eragon. Re member that. Galbatorix may have
immense power, but he cannot anticipate every possibility. Whatever you do, you must remain nimble in
your thinking. Do not become so attached to any one belief that you cannot see past it to another
possibility. Galbatorix is mad and therefore unpredictable, but he also has gaps in his reasoning that an
ordinary person would not. If you can find those, Eragon, then perhaps you and Saphira can defeat him.”

Brom lowered his pipe, his face grave. “I hope you do. My greatest desire, Eragon, is that you and
Saphira will live long and fruitful lives, free from fear of Galbatorix and the Empire. I wish that I could
protect you from all of the dangers that threaten you, but alas, that is not within my ability. All I can do is
give you my advice and teach you what I cannow while I am still here. . . . My son. What ever happens
to you, know that I love you, and so did your mother. May the stars watch over you, Eragon Bromsson.”

As Brom’s final words echoed in Eragon’s mind, the memory faded away, leaving behind empty
darkness. Eragon opened his eyes and was embarrassed to find tears running down his cheeks. He
uttered a choked laugh and wiped his eyes on the edge of his tunic.Brom really was afraid that I would
hate him, he said, and sniffed.

Are you going to be all right?Saphira asked.

Yes,said Eragon, and lifted his head.I think I will, actually. I don’t like some of the things Brom did,
but I am proud to call him my father and to carry his name. He was a great man. . . . It bothers
me, though, that I never had the opportunity to talk to either of my parents as my parents.

At least you were able to spend time with Brom. I am not so fortunate; both my sire and my
mother died long before I hatched. The closest I can come to meeting them are a few hazy
memories from Glaedr.

Eragon put a hand on her neck, and they comforted each other as best they could while they stood upon
the edge of the Crags of Tel’naeír and gazed out over the forest of the elves.

Not long afterward, Oromis emerged from his hut, carrying two bowls of soup, and Eragon and Saphira
turned away from the crags and slowly walked back to the small table in front of Glaedr’s immense bulk.


SOULS OFSTONE

As Eragon pushed away his empty bowl, Oromis said, “Would you like to see a fairth of your mother,
Eragon?”

Eragon froze for a moment, astonished. “Yes, please.” From within the folds of his white tunic, Oromis
withdrew a shingle of thin gray slate, which he passed to Eragon.

The stone was cool and smooth between Eragon’s fingers. On the other side of it, he knew he would
find a perfect likeness of his mother, painted by means of a spell with pigments an elf had set within the
slate many years ago. A flutter of uneasiness ran through Eragon. He had always wanted to see his
mother, but now that the opportunity was before him, he was afraid that the reality might disappoint him.

With an effort, he turned the slate over and beheld an image—clear as a vision seen through a
window—of a garden of red and white roses lit by the pale rays of dawn. A gravel path ran through the
beds of roses. And in the middle of the path was a woman, kneeling, cupping a white rose between her
hands and smelling the flower, her eyes closed and a faint smile upon her lips. She was very beautiful,
Eragon thought. Her expression was soft and tender, yet she wore clothes of padded leather, with
blackened bracers upon her forearms and greaves upon her shins and a sword and dagger hanging from
her waist. In the shape of her face, Eragon could detect a hint of his own features, as well as a certain
resemblance to Garrow, her brother.

The image fascinated Eragon. He pressed his hand against the surface of the fairth, wishing that he could
reach into it and touch her on the arm.

Mother.

Oromis said, “Brom gave me the fairth for safekeeping before he left for Carvahall, and now I give it to
you.”

Without looking up, Eragon asked, “Would you keep it safe for me as well? It might get broken during
our traveling and fighting.”

The pause that followed caught Eragon’s attention. He wrenched his gaze away from his mother to see
that Oromis appeared melancholy and preoccupied. “No, Eragon, I cannot. You will have to make other
arrangements for the preservation of the fairth.”

Why?Eragon wanted to ask, but the sorrow in Oromis’s eyes dissuaded him.

Then Oromis said, “Your time here is limited, and we still have many matters to discuss. Shall I guess
which subject you would like to address next, or will you tell me?”

With great reluctance, Eragon placed the fairth on the table and rotated it so that the image was upside
down. “The two times we have fought Murtagh and Thorn, Murtagh has been more powerful than any
human ought to be. On the Burning Plains, he defeated Saphira and me because we did not realize how
strong he was. If not for his change of heart, we would be prisoners in Urû’baen right now. You once


mentioned that you know how Galbatorix has become so powerful. Will you tell us now, Master? For
our own safety, we need to know.”

“It is not my place to tell you this,” said Oromis.

“Then whose is it?” demanded Eragon. “You can’t—”

Behind Oromis, Glaedr opened one of his molten eyes, which was as large as a round shield, and said,It
is mine. . . . The source of Galbatorix’s power lies in the hearts of dragons. From us, he steals his
strength. Without our aid, Galbatorix would have fallen to the elves and the Varden long ago .

Eragon frowned. “I don’t understand. Why would you help Galbatorix? And how could you? There are
only four dragons and an egg left in Alagaësia . . . aren’t there?”

Many of the dragons whose bodies Galbatorix and the Forsworn slew are still alive today.

“Still alive . . . ?” Bewildered, Eragon glanced at Oromis, but the elf remained quiet, his face inscrutable.
Even more disconcerting was that Saphira did not seem to share Eragon’s confusion.

The gold dragon turned his head on his paws to better look at Eragon, his scales scraping against one
another.Unlike with most creatures, he said,a dragon’s consciousness does not reside solely within
our skulls. There is in our chests a hard, gemlike object, similar in composition to our scales,
called the Eldunarí, which means “the heart of hearts.” When a dragon hatches, their Eldunarí is
clear and lusterless. Usually it remains so all through a dragon’s life and dissolves along with the
dragon’s corpse when they die. However, if we wish, we can transfer our consciousness into the
Eldunarí. Then it will acquire the same color as our scales and begin to glow like a coal. If a
dragon has done this, the Eldunarí will outlast the decay of their flesh, and a dragon’s essence
may live on indefinitely. Also, a dragon can disgorge their Eldunarí while they are still alive. By
this means, a dragon’s body and a dragon’s consciousness can exist separately and yet still be
linked, which can be most useful in certain circumstances. But to do this exposes us to great
danger, for whosoever holds our Eldunarí holds our very soul in their hands. With it, they could
force us to do their bidding, no matter how vile.

The implications of what Glaedr had said astounded Eragon. Shifting his gaze to Saphira, he asked,Did
you already know about this?

The scales on her neck rippled as she made an odd, serpentine motion with her head.I have always
been aware of my heart of hearts. Always I have been able to feel it inside of me, but I never
thought to mention it to you .

How could you not when it’s of such significance?

Would you think it worthy of mention that you have a stomach, Eragon? Or a heart or a liver or
any other organ? My Eldunarí is an integral part of who I am. I never considered its existence
worthy of note. . . . At least not until we last came to Ellesméra.

So you did know!

Only a little. Glaedr hinted that my heart of hearts was more important than I had originally
believed, and he warned me to protect it, lest I inadvertently deliver myself into the hands of our
enemies. More than that he did not explain, but since then, I inferred much of what he just said.


Yet you still did not think this was worth mentioning?demanded Eragon.

I wanted to,she growled,but as with Brom, I gave my word to Glaedr that I would speak of this to
no one, not even to you .

And you agreed?

I trust Glaedr, and I trust Oromis. Do you not?

Eragon scowled and turned back to the elf and the golden dragon. “Why didn’t you tell us of this
sooner?”

Unstoppering the decanter, Oromis refilled his goblet with wine and said, “In order to protect Saphira.”

“Protect her? From what?”

From you,Glaedr said. Eragon was so surprised and outraged, he failed to regain his composure well
enough to protest before Glaedr resumed speaking.In the wild, a dragon would learn about his
Eldunarí from one of his elders when he was old enough to understand the use of it. That way, a
dragon would not transfer themself into their heart of hearts without knowing the full import of
their actions. Among the Riders, a different custom arose. The first few years of partnership
between a dragon and a Rider are crucial to establishing a healthy relationship between the two,
and the Riders discovered that it was better to wait until newly joined Riders and dragons were
well familiar with each other before informing them of the Eldunarí. Otherwise, in the reckless
folly of youth, a dragon might decide to disgorge his heart of hearts merely to appease or impress
his Rider. When we give up our Eldunarí, we are giving up a physical embodiment of our entire
being. And we cannot return it to its original place within our bodies once it is gone. A dragon
should not undertake the separation of their consciousness lightly, for it will change how they live
the rest of their lives, even if they should endure for another thousand years.

“Do you still have your heart of hearts within you?” Eragon asked.

The grass around the table bent under the blast of hot air that erupted from Glaedr’s nostrils.That is not
a meet question to ask any dragon but Saphira. Do not presume to put it to me again, hatchling .

Although Glaedr’s rebuke made Eragon’s cheeks sting, he still had the wherewithal to respond as he
should, with a seated bow and the words “No, Master.” Then he asked, “What . . . what happens if your
Eldunarí breaks?”

If a dragon has already transferred their consciousness to their heart of hearts, then they will die
a true death. With an audible click, Glaedr blinked, his inner and outer eyelids flashing across the rayed
orb of his iris.Before we formed our pact with the elves, we kept our hearts in Du Fells Nángoröth,
the mountains in the center of the Hadarac Desert. Later, after the Riders established themselves
on the island of Vroengard and therein built a repository for the Eldunarí, wild dragons and
paired dragons both entrusted their hearts to the Riders for safekeeping .

“So then,” said Eragon, “Galbatorix captured the Eldunarí?”

Contrary to Eragon’s expectations, it was Oromis who replied. “He did, but not all at once. It had been
so long since anyone had truly threatened the Riders, many of our order had become careless about


protecting the Eldunarí. At the time Galbatorix turned against us, it was not uncommon for a Rider’s
dragon to disgorge their Eldunarí merely for the sake of convenience.”

“Convenience?”

Anyone who holds one of our hearts,said Glaedr,may communicate with the dragon from which it
came without regard for distance. The whole of Alagaësia might separate a Rider and dragon,
and yet if the Rider had with him his dragon’s Eldunarí, they could share thoughts as easily as you
and Saphira do now.

“In addition,” said Oromis, “a magician who possesses an Eldunarí can draw upon the dragon’s strength
to bolster his spells, again without regard for where the dragon might be. When—”

A brilliantly colored hummingbird interrupted their conversation by darting across the table. Its wings a
throbbing blur, the bird hovered over the bowls of fruit and lapped at the liquid oozing from a crushed
blackberry, then flitted up and away, vanishing among the trunks of the forest.

Oromis resumed speaking: “When Galbatorix killed his first Rider, he also stole the heart of the Rider’s
dragon. During the years Galbatorix spent hiding in the wilderness thereafter, he broke the dragon’s mind
and bent it to his will, likely with the help of Durza. And when Galbatorix began his insurrection in
earnest, with Morzan by his side, he was already stronger than most every other Rider. His strength was
not merely magical but mental, for the force of the Eldunarí’s consciousness augmented his own.

“Galbatorix did not just try to kill the Riders and dragons. He made it his goal to acquire as many of the
Eldunarí as he could, either by seizing them from Riders or by torturing a Rider until his dragon disgorged
its heart of hearts. By the time we realized what Galbatorix was doing, he was already too powerful to
stop. It helped Galbatorix that many Riders traveled not only with the Eldunarí of their own dragon but
also with Eldunarí of dragons whose bodies were no more, for such dragons often became bored with
sitting in an alcove and yearned for adventure. And of course, once Galbatorix and the Forsworn sacked
the city of Doru Araeba on the island of Vroengard, he gained possession of the entire hoard of Eldunarí
stored therein.

“Galbatorix engineered his success by using the might and wisdom of the dragons against all of
Alagaësia. At first he was unable to control more than a handful of the Eldunarí he had captured. It is no
easy thing to force a dragon to submit to you, no matter how powerful you might be. As soon as
Galbatorix crushed the Riders and had installed himself as king in Urû’baen, he dedicated himself to
subduing the rest of the hearts, one by one.

“We believe the task preoccupied him for the main part of the next forty years, during which time he
paid little attention to the affairs of Alagaësia—which is why the people of Surda were able to secede
from the Empire. When he finished, Galbatorix emerged from seclusion and began to reassert his control
over the Empire and the lands beyond. For some reason, after two and a half years of additional
slaughter and sorrow, he withdrew to Urû’baen again, and there he has dwelt ever since, not so solitary
as before, but obviously focused upon some project known only to him. His vices are many, but he has
not abandoned himself to debauchery; that much the Varden’s spies have determined. More than that,
though, we have not been able to discover.”

Lost deep in thought, Eragon stared off into the distance. For the first time, all of the stories he had heard
about Galbatorix’s unnatural power made sense. A faint feeling of optimism welled up within Eragon as
he said to himself,I’m not sure how, but if we could release the Eldunarí from Galbatorix’s control,
he would be no more powerful than any normal Dragon Rider. Unlikely as the prospect seemed, it


heartened Eragon to know that the king did have a vulnerability, no matter how slight.

As Eragon continued to muse upon the subject, another question occurred to him. “Why is it that I’ve
never heard mention of the hearts of dragons in the stories of old? Surely if they are so important, the
bards and scholars would speak of them.”

Oromis laid a hand flat on the table then and said, “Of all the secrets in Alagaësia, that of the Eldunarí is
one of the most closely guarded, even among my own people. Throughout history, dragons have striven
to hide their hearts from the rest of the world. They revealed their existence to us only after the magical
pact between our races was established, and then only to a select few.”

“But why?”

Ah,said Glaedr,often we despised the need for secrecy, but if ever the Eldunarí had become
common knowledge, every low-minded scoundrel in the land would have attempted to steal one,
and eventually some would have achieved their goal. It was an outcome we went to great lengths
to prevent.

“Is there no way for a dragon to defend themselves through their Eldunarí?” Eragon asked.

Glaedr’s eye seemed to twinkle brighter than ever.An apt question. A dragon who has disgorged
their Eldunarí but who still enjoys the use of their flesh can, of course, defend their heart with
their claws and their fangs and their tail and with the battering of their wings. A dragon whose
body is dead, however, possesses none of those advantages. Their only weapon is the weapon of
their mind and, perhaps, if the moment is right, the weapon of magic, which we cannot command
at will. That is one reason why many dragons did not choose to prolong their existence beyond the
demise of their flesh. To be unable to move of your own volition, to be unable to sense the world
around you except through the minds of others, and to only be able to influence the course of
events with your thoughts and with rare and unpredictable flashes of magic; it would be a difficult
existence to embrace for most any creature, but especially dragons, who are the freest of all
beings.

“Why would they, then?” asked Eragon.

Sometimes it happened by accident. As their body was failing, a dragon might panic and flee into
their Eldunarí. Or if a dragon had disgorged their heart before their body died, they would have
no choice but to continue to endure. But mostly, the dragons who chose to live on in their
Eldunarí were those who were old beyond measure, older than Oromis and I are now, old enough
that the concerns of the flesh had ceased to matter to them and they had turned in on themselves
and wished to spend the rest of eternity pondering questions younger beings could not
comprehend. We revered and treasured the hearts of such dragons on account of their vast
wisdom and intelligence. It was common for wild dragons and paired dragons alike, as well as
Riders, to seek advice from them on matters of importance. That Galbatorix enslaved them is a
crime of almost unimaginable cruelty and evil.

NowIhave a question, said Saphira, the rich thrum of her thoughts running through Eragon’s mind.Once
one of our kind becomes confined to their Eldunarí, must they continue to exist, or is it possible
for them, if they could no longer endure their condition, to release their hold on the world and
pass into the darkness beyond?

“Not on their own,” said Oromis. “Not unless the inspiration to use magic should sweep over the dragon


and allow them to break their Eldunarí from within, which to my knowledge has happened but rarely. The
only other option would be for the dragon to convince someone else to smash the Eldunarí for them. That
lack of control is another reason why dragons were extremely wary of transferring themselves into their
heart of hearts, lest they trap themselves in a prison from which there was no escape.”

Eragon could feel Saphira’s loathing at the thought of that prospect. She did not speak of it, however,
but asked,How many Eldunarí does Galbatorix hold in his thrall?

“We do not know the exact number,” said Oromis, “but we estimate that his hoard contains many
hundreds.”

A wriggle shimmered down Saphira’s glittering length.So then, our race is not on the verge of
extinction after all?

Oromis hesitated, and it was Glaedr who answered.Little one, he said, startling Eragon with the use of
the epithet,even if the ground were covered with Eldunarí, our race would still be doomed. A
dragon preserved within an Eldunarí is still a dragon, but they possess neither the urges of the
flesh nor the organs with which to fulfill them. They cannot reproduce .

The base of Eragon’s skull began to throb, and he became increasingly aware of his weariness from the
past four days of traveling. His exhaustion made it difficult to keep hold of thoughts for more than a few
moments; at the slightest distraction, they slipped out of his grasp.

The tip of Saphira’s tail twitched.I am not so ignorant as to believe that Eldunarí could beget
offspring. However, it comforts me to know I am not as alone as I once thought. . . . Our race may
be doomed, but at least there are more than four dragons alive in the world, whether they be
cloaked in their flesh or not .

“That is true,” said Oromis, “but they are as much Galbatorix’s captives as Murtagh and Thorn.”

Freeing them gives me something to strive for, though, along with rescuing the last egg,said
Saphira.

“It is something for us both to strive for,” said Eragon. “We are their only hope.” He rubbed his brow
with his right thumb, then said, “There is still something I don’t understand.”

“Oh?” asked Oromis. “Wherein lies your confusion?”

“If Galbatorix draws his power from these hearts, how do they produce the energy he uses?” Eragon
paused, searching for a better way to phrase his question. He gestured at the swallows flitting about in the
sky. “Every living thing eats and drinks to sustain itself, even plants. Food provides the energy our bodies
need to function properly. It also provides the energy we need to work magic, whether we rely upon our
own strength to cast a spell or make use of the strength of others. How can that be, though, with these
Eldunarí? They don’t have bones and muscles and skin, do they? They don’t eat, do they? So then, how
do they survive? Where does their energy come from?”

Oromis smiled, his longish teeth glossy as enameled porcelain. “From magic.”

“Magic?”

“If one defines magic as the manipulation of energy, which properly it is, then yes, magic. Where exactly


the Eldunarí acquire their energy is a mystery to both us and the dragons; no one has ever identified the
source. It may be they absorb sunlight, as do plants, or that they feed off the life forces of the creatures
closest to them. Whatever the answer, it has been proven that when a dragon undergoes body death and
their consciousness takes up sole residence in their heart of hearts, they bring with them however much
spare strength was available within their body when it ceased to function. Thereafter, their store of energy
increases at a steady pace for the next five to seven years, until they attain the full height of their power,
which is immense indeed. The total amount of energy an Eldunarí can hold depends upon the size of the
heart; the older a dragon, the larger their Eldunarí and the more energy it can absorb before becoming
saturated.”

Thinking back to when he and Saphira had battled Murtagh and Thorn, Eragon said, “Galbatorix must
have given Murtagh several Eldunarí. That’s the only explanation for his increase in strength.”

Oromis nodded. “You are fortunate Galbatorix did not lend him any more hearts, else it would have
been easy for Murtagh to overwhelm you, Arya, and all the other spellcasters with the Varden.”

Eragon remembered how, both times he and Saphira had encountered Murtagh and Thorn, Murtagh’s
mind had felt as if it contained multiple beings. Eragon shared his recollection with Saphira and said,
Those must have been the Eldunarí I sensed. . . . I wonder where Murtagh put them? Thorn
carried no saddlebags, and I didn’t see any odd bulges in Murtagh’s clothing .

I don’t know,said Saphira.You do realize that Murtagh must have been referring to his Eldunarí
when he said that instead of tearing out your own heart, it would be better to tear out his hearts.
Hearts,not heart.

You’re right! Maybe he was trying to warn me. Inhaling, Eragon loosened the knot between his
shoulder blades and leaned back in his chair. “Aside from Saphira’s heart of hearts, and Glaedr’s, are
there any Eldunarí that Galbatorix hasn’t captured?”

Faint lines appeared around the corners of Oromis’s down-turned mouth. “None that we know of. After
the fall of the Riders, Brom went searching for Eldunarí that Galbatorix might have overlooked, but
without success. Nor, in all my years of scouring Alagaësia with my mind, have I detected so much as a
whisper of a thought from an Eldunarí. Every Eldunarí was well accounted for when Galbatorix and
Morzan initiated their attack on us, and none of them vanished without explanation. It is inconceivable
that any great store of Eldunarí might be lying hidden somewhere, ready to help us if we could but locate
them.”

Although Eragon had expected no other answer, he still found it disappointing. “One last question. When
either a Rider or a Rider’s dragon dies, the surviving member of the pair would often waste away or
commit suicide soon afterward. And those that didn’t usually went mad from the loss. Am I right?”

You are,said Glaedr.

“What would happen, though, if the dragon transferred their consciousness to their heart and then their
body died?”

Through the soles of his boots, Eragon felt a faint tremor shake the ground as Glaedr shifted his position.
The gold dragon said,If a dragon experienced body death and yet their Rider still lived, together
they became known as Indlvarn. The transition would hardly be a pleasant one for the dragon,
but many Riders and dragons successfully adapted to the change and continued to serve the
Riders with distinction. If, however, it was a dragon’s Rider who died, then the dragon would


often smash their Eldunarí, or arrange for another to smash it for them if their body was no more,
thus killing themselves and following their Rider into the void. But not all. Some dragons were
able to overcome their loss—as were some Riders, such as Brom—and continue to serve our order
for many years afterward, either through their flesh or through their heart of hearts.

You have given us much to think about, Oromis-elda,said Saphira. Eragon nodded but stayed silent,
for he was busy pondering all that had been said.

HANDS OF AWARRIOR

Eragon nibbled on a warm, sweet strawberry while he stared into the fathomless depths of the sky.
When he finished eating the berry, he set the stem on the tray before him, pushing it into just the right spot
with the tip of his forefinger, and then opened his mouth to speak.

Before he could, Oromis said, “What now, Eragon?”

“What now?”

“We have spoken at length on those subjects about which you were curious. What now do you and
Saphira wish to accomplish? You cannot linger in Ellesméra, so I wonder what else you hope to achieve
by your visit, or is it your intention to depart again tomorrow morning?”

“We had hoped,” Eragon said, “that, when we returned, we would be able to continue our training as
before. Obviously, we haven’t time for that now, but there is something else I would like to do.”

“And that would be?”

“. . . Master, I have not told you everything that happened to me when Brom and I were in Teirm.” And
then Eragon recounted how curiosity had lured him into Angela’s shop and how she had told him his
fortune, and the advice Solembum had given him afterward.

Oromis drew a finger across his upper lip, his demeanor contemplative. “I have heard this fortuneteller
mentioned with increasing frequency throughout this past year, both by you and in Arya’s reports from
the Varden. This Angela seems to be most adept at turning up whenever and wherever events of
significance are about to take place.”

That she is,confirmed Saphira.

Continuing, Oromis said, “Her behavior reminds me very much of a human spellcaster who once visited
the halls of Ellesméra, although she did not go by the name of Angela. Is Angela a woman of short
stature, with thick, curly brown hair, flashing eyes, and a wit that is as sharp as it is odd?”

“You have described her perfectly,” said Eragon. “Is she the same person?”

Oromis made a small flicking motion with his left hand. “If she is, she is an extraordinary person. . . . As
for her prophecies, I would not devote much thought to them. Either they will come true or they will not,


and without knowing more, none of us can influence the outcome.

“What the werecat said, though, is worthy of far more consideration. Unfortunately, I cannot elucidate
either of his statements. I have never heard of any such place as the Vault of Souls, and while the Rock
of Kuthian strikes a familiar chord in my memory, I cannot recall where I have encountered the name. I
will search my scrolls for it, but instinct tells me I will find no mention of it in elvish writings.”

“What of the weapon underneath the Menoa tree?”

“I know of no such weapon, Eragon, and I am well acquainted with the lore of this forest. In all of Du
Weldenvarden, there are perhaps only two elves whose learning exceeds my own where the forest is
concerned. I will inquire of them, but I suspect it will be a futile endeavor.” When Eragon expressed his
disappointment, Oromis said, “I understand that you require a suitable replacement for Zar’roc, Eragon,
and this I can help you with. Besides my own blade, Naegling, we elves have preserved two other
swords of the Dragon Riders. They are Arvindr and Támerlein. Arvindr is currently held in the city of
Nädindel, which you have not the time to visit. But Támerlein is here, in Ellesméra. It is a treasure of
House Valtharos, and while the lord of their house, Lord Fiolr, would not part with it eagerly, I think he
would give it to you if you asked him respectfully. I will arrange for you to meet with him tomorrow
morning.”

“And what if the sword does not fit me?” asked Eragon.

“Let us hope it does. However, I shall also send word to the smith Rhunön that she may expect you later
in the day.”

“But she swore she would never forge another sword.”

Oromis sighed. “She did, but her advice would still be worth seeking out. If anyone can recommend the
proper weapon for you, it would be she. Besides, even if you like the feel of Támerlein, I am sure
Rhunön would want to examine the sword before you left with it. Over a hundred years have elapsed
since Támerlein was last used in battle, and it might need some slight refurbishing.”

“Could another elf forge me a blade?” asked Eragon.

“Nay,” said Oromis. “Not if it were to match the craftsmanship of Zar’roc or whichever stolen sword
Galbatorix has chosen to wield. Rhunön is one of the very oldest of our race, and it is she alone who has
made the swords for our order.”

“She is as old as the Riders?” said Eragon, amazed.

“Older even.”

Eragon paused. “What shall we do between now and tomorrow, Master?”

Oromis looked over Eragon and Saphira, then said, “Go and visit the Menoa tree; I know you will not
rest easy until you have. See there if you can find the weapon the werecat enticed you with. When you
have satisfied your curiosity, retire to the quarters of your tree house, which Islanzadí’s servants keep in
readiness for you and Saphira. Tomorrow we shall do what we can.”

“But, Master, we have so little time—”


“And the pair of you are far too tired for any more excitement today. Trust me, Eragon; you will do
better for the rest. I think the hours between will help you to digest all we have spoken of. Even by the
measure of kings, queens, and dragons, this conversation of ours has been no light exchange.”

Despite Oromis’s assurances, Eragon felt uneasy about spending the remainder of the day in leisure. His
sense of urgency was so great, he wanted to continue working even when he knew he ought to be
recuperating.

Eragon shifted in his chair, and by the motion he must have revealed something of his ambivalence, for
Oromis smiled and said, “If it will help you relax, Eragon, I promise you this: before you and Saphira
leave for the Varden, you may pick any use of magic, and in the brief while we have, I will teach you
everything I can concerning it.”

With his thumb, Eragon pushed his ring around his right index finger and considered Oromis’s offer,
trying to decide what, of all areas of magic, he would most like to learn. At last he said, “I would like to
know how to summon spirits.”

A shadow passed over Oromis’s face. “I shall keep my word, Eragon, but sorcery is a dark and
unseemly art. You should not seek to control other beings for your own gain. Even if you ignore the
immorality of sorcery, it is an exceptionally dangerous and fiendishly complicated discipline. A magician
requires at least three years of intensive study before he can hope to summon spirits and not have them
possess him.

“Sorcery is not like other magics, Eragon; by it, you attempt to force incredibly powerful and hostile
beings to obey your commands, beings who devote every moment of their captivity to finding a flaw in
their bonds so that they can turn on you and subjugate you in revenge. Throughout history, never has
there been a Shade who was also a Rider, and of all the horrors that have stalked this fair land, such an
abomination could easily be the worst, worse even than Galbatorix. Please choose another subject,
Eragon: one less perilous for you and for our cause.”

“Then,” said Eragon, “could you teach me my true name?”

“Your requests,” said Oromis, “grow ever more difficult, Eragon-finiarel. I might be able to guess your
true name if I so wished.” The silver-haired elf studied Eragon with increased intensity, his eyes heavy
upon him. “Yes, I believe I could. But I will not. A true name can be of great importance magically, but it
is not a spell in and of itself, and so it is exempt from my promise. If your desire is to better understand
yourself, Eragon, then seek to discover your true name on your own. If I gave you it, you might profit
thereof, but you would do so without the wisdom you would otherwise acquire during the journey to find
your true name. A person must earn enlightenment, Eragon. It is not handed down to you by others,
regardless of how revered they be.”

Eragon fiddled with his ring for another moment, then made a noise in his throat and shook his head. “I
don’t know. . . . My questions have run dry.”

“That I very much doubt,” said Oromis.

Eragon found it difficult to concentrate upon the matter at hand; his thoughts kept returning to the
Eldunarí and to Brom. Again Eragon marveled at the strange series of events that had led Brom to settle
in Carvahall and, eventually, to Eragon himself becoming a Dragon Rider.If Arya hadn’t . . . Eragon
stopped and smiled as a thought occurred to him. “Will you teach me how to move an object from place
to place without delay, just as Arya did with Saphira’s egg?”


Oromis nodded. “An excellent choice. The spell is costly, but it has many uses. I am sure it will prove
most helpful to you in your dealings with Galbatorix and the Empire. Arya, for one, can attest to its
effectiveness.”

Lifting his goblet from the table, Oromis held it up to the sun, and the radiance from above rendered the
wine transparent. He studied the liquid for a long while, then lowered the goblet and said, “Before you
venture into the city, you should know that he whom you sent to live among us arrived here some time
ago.”

A moment passed before Eragon realized to whom Oromis was referring. “Sloan is in Ellesméra?” said
Eragon, astonished.

“He lives alone in a small dwelling by a stream on the western edge of Ellesméra. Death was close upon
him when he staggered out of the forest, but we tended the wounds of his flesh, and he is healthy now.
The elves in the city bring him food and clothes and otherwise see to it he is well cared for. They escort
him wherever he wishes to go, and sometimes they read to him, but for the most part, he prefers to sit
alone, saying nothing to those who approach. Twice he has attempted to leave, but your spells prevented
it.”

I’m surprised he arrived here so quickly,Eragon said to Saphira.

The compulsion you placed upon him must have been stronger than you realized.

Aye. In a quiet voice, Eragon asked, “Have you seen fit to restore his vision?”

“We have not.”

The weeping man is broken inside,Glaedr said.He cannot see clearly enough for his eyes to be of
any use .

“Should I go and visit him?” asked Eragon, unsure of what Oromis and Glaedr expected.

“That is for you to decide,” said Oromis. “Meeting you again might only upset him. However, you are
responsible for his punishment, Eragon. It would be wrong for you to forget him.”

“No, Master, I won’t.”

With a brisk motion of his head, Oromis set his goblet on the table and moved his chair closer to
Eragon. “The day grows old, and I would keep you here no longer, lest I interfere with your rest, but
there is one more thing I wish to attend to before you depart: your hands, may I examine them? I would
like to see what they say about you now.” And Oromis held out his own hands toward Eragon.

Extending his arms, Eragon placed his hands palm-downward on top of Oromis’s, shivering at the touch
of the elf’s thin fingers against the inside of his wrists. The calluses on Eragon’s knuckles cast long
shadows across the backs of his hands as Oromis tilted them from side to side. Then, exerting a slight but
firm pressure, Oromis turned Eragon’s hands over and inspected his palms and the undersides of his
fingers.

“What do you see?” asked Eragon.


Oromis twisted Eragon’s hands around again and gestured at his calluses. “You now have the hands of a
warrior, Eragon. Take care they do not become the hands of a man who revels in the carnage of war.”

THETREE OFLIFE

From the Crags of Tel’naeír, Saphira flew low over the swaying forest until she arrived at the clearing
wherein stood the Menoa tree. Thicker than a hundred of the giant pines that encircled it, the Menoa tree
rose toward the sky like a mighty pillar, its arching canopy thousands of feet across. The gnarled net of its
roots radiated outward from the massive, moss-bound trunk, covering more than ten acres of forest floor
before the roots delved deeper into the soft soil and vanished beneath those of lesser trees. Close to the
Menoa tree, the air was moist and cool, and a faint but constant mist drifted down from the mesh of
needles above, watering the broad ferns clustered about the base of its trunk. Red squirrels raced along
the branches of the ancient tree, and the bright calls and chirrups of hundreds of birds burst forth from the
bramble-like depths of its foliage. And throughout the clearing, the sense of a watchful presence
pervaded, for the tree contained within it the remnants of the elf once known as Linnëa, whose
consciousness now guided the growth of the tree and that of the forest beyond.

Eragon searched the uneven field of roots for any sign of a weapon, but as before, he found no object he
would consider carrying into battle. He pried a loose slab of bark from the moss at his feet and held it up
to Saphira.What do you think? he asked.If I imbued it with enough spells, could I kill a soldier with
this?

You could kill a soldier with a blade of grass if you wanted to,she answered.However, against
Murtagh and Thorn, or the king and his black dragon, you might as well attack them with a
strand of wet wool as that bark .

You’re right,he said, and tossed it away.

It seems to me,she said,that you should not need to make a fool of yourself in order for
Solembum’s advice to prove true .

No, but perhaps I should approach the problem differently if I am going to find this weapon. As
you pointed out before, it could just as easily be a stone or a book as a blade of some sort. A staff
carved from the branch of the Menoa tree would be a worthy weapon, I would think.

But hardly equal to a sword.

No. . . . And I would not dare lop off a branch without permission from the tree herself, and I
have no idea how I could go about convincing her to grant my request.

Saphira arched her sinuous neck and gazed upward at the tree, then shook her head and shoulders to rid
herself of the droplets that had accumulated on the sharp edges of her faceted scales. As the spray of
cold water struck him, Eragon yelped and jumped backward, shielding his face with his arm.If any
creature tried to harm the Menoa tree, she said,I doubt they would live long enough to regret their
mistake .


For several more hours, the two of them prowled the clearing. Eragon continued to hope they would
stumble across some nook or cranny among the knotted roots where they would find the exposed corner
of a buried chest, which would contain a sword.Since Murtagh has Zar’roc, which is his father’s
sword, Eragon thought,by all rights, I ought to have the sword Rhunön made for Brom .

It would be the right color too,Saphira added.His dragon, my namesake, was blue as well .

At last, in desperation, Eragon reached out with his mind toward the Menoa tree and attempted to
attract the attention of her slow-moving consciousness, to explain his search and ask for her help. But he
might as well have been trying to communicate with the wind or the rain, for the tree took no more notice
of him than he would of an ant flailing its feelers by his boots.

Disappointed, he and Saphira left the Menoa tree even as the rim of the sun kissed the horizon. From the
clearing, Saphira flew to the center of Ellesméra, where she glided to a landing within the bedroom of the
tree house the elves had given them to stay in. The house was a cluster of several globular rooms that
rested in the crown of a sturdy tree, several hundred feet above the ground.

A meal of fruit, vegetables, cooked beans, and bread was waiting for Eragon in the dining room. After
eating a little, Eragon curled up next to Saphira on the blanket-lined basin set into the floor, ignoring the
bed in preference for Saphira’s company. He lay there, alert and aware of his surroundings, while
Saphira sank into a deep sleep. From his place by her side, Eragon watched the stars rise and set above
the moonlit forest and thought of Brom and the mystery of his mother. Late in the night, he slipped into
the trancelike state of his waking dreams, and there he spoke with his parents. Eragon could not hear
what they said, for his voice and theirs were muted and indistinct, but somehow he was aware of the love
and pride his parents felt for him, and although he knew they were no more than phantoms of his restless
mind, ever after he treasured the memory of their affection.

At dawn, a slim elf maid led Eragon and Saphira through the paths of Ellesméra to the compound of the
family Valtharos. As they passed between the dark boles of the gloomy pines, it struck Eragon how very
empty and quiet the city was compared with their last visit; he descried only three elves among the trees:
tall, graceful figures who glided away on silent footsteps.

When the elves march to war,Saphira observed,few remain behind .

Aye.

Lord Fiolr was waiting for them inside an arched hall illuminated by several floating werelights. His face
was long and stern and angled more sharply than those of most elves, so that his features reminded
Eragon of a thin-bladed spear. He wore a robe of green and gold, the collar of which flared high behind
his head, like the neck feathers of an exotic bird. In his left hand, he carried a wand of white wood
carved with glyphs from the Liduen Kvaedhí. Mounted upon the end was a lustrous pearl.

Bending at the waist, Lord Fiolr bowed, as did Eragon. Then they exchanged the elves’ traditional
greetings, and Eragon thanked the lord for being so generous as to allow him to inspect the sword
Támerlein.

And Lord Fiolr said, “Long has Támerlein been a prized possession of my family, and it is especially
dear to my own heart. Know you the history of Támerlein, Shadeslayer?”

“No,” said Eragon.


“My mate was the most wise and fair Naudra, and her brother, Arva, was a Dragon Rider at the time of
the Fall. Naudra was visiting with him in Ilirea when Galbatorix and the Forsworn did sweep down upon
the city like a storm from the north. Arva fought alongside the other Riders to defend Ilirea, but Kialandí
of the Forsworn dealt him a mortal blow. As he lay dying on the battlements of Ilirea, Arva gave his
sword, Támerlein, to Naudra that she might protect herself. With Támerlein, Naudra fought free of the
Forsworn and returned here with another dragon and Rider, although she died soon afterward of her
wounds.”

With a single finger, Lord Fiolr stroked the wand, eliciting a soft glow from the pearl in response.
“Támerlein is as precious to me as the air in my lungs; I would sooner part with life than part with it.
Unfortunately, neither I nor my kin are worthy of wielding it. Támerlein was forged for a Rider, and
Riders we are not. I am willing to lend you it, Shadeslayer, in order to aid you in your fight against
Galbatorix. However, Támerlein will remain the property of House Valtharos, and you must promise to
return the sword if ever I or my heirs ask for it.”

Eragon gave his word, and then Lord Fiolr led him and Saphira to a long, polished table grown out of
the living wood of the floor. At one end of the table was an ornate stand, and resting upon the stand was
the sword Támerlein and its sheath.

The blade of Támerlein was colored a dark, rich green, as was its sheath. A large emerald adorned the
pommel. The furniture of the sword had been wrought of blued steel. A line of glyphs adorned the
crossguard. In Elvish, they said,I am Támerlein, bringer of the final sleep . In length, the sword was
equal to Zar’roc, but the blade was wider and the tip rounder and the build of the hilt was heavier. It was
a beautiful, deadly weapon, but just by looking at it, Eragon could see that Rhunön had forged Támerlein
for a person with a fighting style different from his own, a style that relied more on cutting and slashing
than the faster, more elegant techniques Brom had taught him.

As soon as Eragon’s fingers closed around Támerlein’s hilt, he realized that the hilt was too large for his
hand, and at that moment he knew that Támerlein was not the sword for him. It did not feel like an
extension of his arm, as had Zar’roc. And yet, despite his realization, Eragon hesitated, for where else
could he hope to find so fine a sword? Arvindr, the other blade Oromis had mentioned, lay in a city
hundreds of miles distant.

Then Saphira said,Do not take it. If you are to carry a sword into battle, if your life and mine are
to depend upon it, then the sword must be perfect. Nothing else will suffice. Besides, I do not like
the conditions Lord Fiolr has attached to his gift .

And so Eragon replaced Támerlein on its stand and apologized to Lord Fiolr, explaining why he could
not accept the sword. The narrow-faced elf did not appear overly disappointed; to the contrary, Eragon
thought he saw a flash of satisfaction appear in Fiolr’s fierce eyes.

From the halls of the family Valtharos, Eragon and Saphira made their own way through the dim caverns
of the forest to the tunnel of dogwood trees that led to the open atrium in the center of Rhunön’s house.
As they emerged from the tunnel, Eragon heard the clink of a hammer on a chisel, and he saw Rhunön
sitting at a bench by the open-walled forge in the middle of the atrium. The elf woman was busy carving a
block of polished steel that lay before her. Whatever she was sculpting, Eragon could not guess, for the
piece was still rough and indistinct.

“So, Shadeslayer, you are still alive,” said Rhunön, without taking her eyes off her work. Her voice


grated like pitted millstones. “Oromis told me that you lost Zar’roc to the son of Morzan.”

Eragon winced and nodded, even though she was not looking at him. “Yes, Rhunön-elda. He took it
from me on the Burning Plains.”

“Hmph.” Rhunön concentrated on her hammering, tapping the back of her chisel with inhuman speed,
then she paused and said, “The sword has found its rightful owner, then. I do not like the use to
which—what is his name? ah yes—Murtaghis putting Zar’roc, but every Rider deserves a proper
sword, and I can think of no better sword for the son of Morzan than Morzan’s own blade.” The elf
woman glanced up at Eragon from underneath her lined brow. “Understand me, Shadeslayer, I would
prefer it if you had kept hold of Zar’roc, but it would please me even more if you had a sword that was
made for you. Zar’roc may have served you well, but it was the wrong shape for your body. And do not
even speak to me of Támerlein. You would have to be a fool to think you could wield it.”

“As you can see,” said Eragon, “I did not bring it with me from Lord Fiolr.”

Rhunön nodded and resumed chiseling. “Well then, good.”

“If Zar’roc is the right sword for Murtagh,” said Eragon, “wouldn’t Brom’s sword be the right weapon
for me?”

A frown pinched Rhunön’s eyebrows together. “Undbitr? Why would you think of Brom’s blade?”

“Because Brom was my father,” said Eragon, and felt a thrill at being able to say that.

“Is that so now?” Laying down her hammer and chisel, Rhunön walked out from under the roof of her
forge until she stood opposite Eragon. Her posture was slightly stooped from the centuries she had spent
hunched over her work, and because of it, she appeared an inch or two shorter than he. “Mmh, yes, I
can see the similarity. He was a rude one, he was, Brom; he said what he meant and wasted no words. I
rather liked it. I cannot abide how my race has become. They are too polite, too refined, too precious.
Ha! I remember when elves used to laugh and fight like normal creatures. Now they have become so
withdrawn, some seem to have no more emotion than a marble statue!”

Saphira said,Are you referring to how elves were before our races joined themselves to one
another?

Rhunön turned her scowl onto Saphira. “Brightscales. Welcome. Yes, I was speaking of a time before
the bond between elves and dragons was sealed. The changes I have seen in our races since, you would
hardly credit as possible, but so they are, and here I am, one of the few still alive who can remember
what we were like before.”

Then Rhunön whipped her gaze back to Eragon. “Undbitr is not the answer to your need. Brom lost his
sword during the fall of the Riders. If it does not reside in Galbatorix’s collection, then it may have been
destroyed or it may be buried in the earth somewhere, underneath the crumbling bones of a
long-forgotten battlefield. Even if it could be found, you could not retrieve it before you would have to
face your enemies again.”

“What, then, should I do, Rhunön-elda?” asked Eragon. And he told her of the falchion he had chosen
when he was among the Varden and of the spells he had reinforced the falchion with and of how it had
failed him in the tunnels underneath Farthen Dûr.


Rhunön snorted. “No, that would never work. Once a blade has been forged and quenched, you can
protect it with an endless array of spells, but the metal itself remains as weak as ever. A Rider needs
something more: a blade that can survive the most violent of impacts and one that is unaffected by most
any magic. No, what you must do is sing spells over the hot metal while you are extracting it from the ore
and also while you are forging it, so as to alter and improve the structure of the metal.”

“How can I get such a sword, though?” Eragon asked. “Would you make me one, Rhunön-elda?”

The wire-thin lines on Rhunön’s face deepened. She reached over and rubbed her left elbow, the thick
muscles in her bare forearm writhing. “You know that I swore that I would never create another weapon
so long as I live.”

“I do.”

“My oath binds me; I cannot break it, no matter how much I might wish to.” Continuing to hold her
elbow, Rhunön walked back to her bench and sat before her sculpture. “And why should I, Dragon
Rider? Tell me that. Why should I loose another soul-reaver upon the world?”

Choosing his words with care, Eragon said, “Because if you did, you could help put an end to
Galbatorix’s reign. Would not it be fitting if I killed him with a blade you forged when it was with your
swords he and the Forsworn slew so many dragons and Riders? You hate how they have used your
weapons. How better to balance the scales, then, than by forging the instrument of Galbatorix’s doom?”

Rhunön crossed her arms and looked up at the sky. “A sword . . . a new sword. After so long, to again
ply my craft. . . .” Lowering her gaze, she jutted her chin out at Eragon and said, “It is possible, just
possible, that there might be a way I could help you, but it is futile to speculate, for I cannot try.”

Why not? asked Saphira.

“Because I have not the metal I need!” Rhunön growled. “You do not think that I forged the Riders’
swords out of ordinary steel, do you? No! Long ago, while I was wandering through Du Weldenvarden,
I happened upon fragments of a shooting star that had fallen to the earth. The pieces contained an ore
unlike any I had handled before, and so I returned with it to my forge, and I refined it, and I discovered
that the mix of steel that resulted was stronger, harder, and more flexible than any of earthly origin. I
named the metalbrightsteel , on account of its uncommon brilliance, and when Queen Tarmunora asked
me to forge the first of the Riders’ swords, it was brightsteel I used. Thereafter, whenever I had the
opportunity, I would search the forest for more fragments of the star metal. I did not often find any, but
when I did, I would save them for the Riders.

“Over the centuries, the fragments became ever more rare, until at last I began to think none were left. It
took me four-and-twenty years to find the last deposit. From it, I forged seven swords, among them
Undbitr and Zar’roc. Since the Riders fell, I have searched for brightsteel only once more, and that was
last night, after Oromis spoke to me about you.” Rhunön tilted her head, and her watery eyes bored into
Eragon. “I wandered far and wide, and I cast many spells of finding and binding, but I came across not a
single speck of brightsteel. If some could be procured, then we might begin to consider a sword for you,
Shadeslayer. Otherwise, this discussion is no more than pointless blathering.”

Eragon bowed to the elf woman and thanked her for her time, then he and Saphira left the atrium
through the green leafy tunnel of dogwood.

As they walked side by side toward a glade from which Saphira could take off, Eragon said,


Brightsteel; that has to be what Solembum meant. There must be brightsteel underneath the
Menoa tree.

How would he know?

Perhaps the tree told him herself. Does it matter?

Brightsteel or not,she said,how are we supposed to get at anything that the roots of the Menoa
tree cover? We cannot chop through them. We do not even know where to chop.

I have to think about it.

From the glade by Rhunön’s house, Saphira and Eragon flew over Ellesméra back to the Crags of
Tel’naeír, where Oromis and Glaedr were waiting. Once Saphira had landed and Eragon climbed down,
she and Glaedr leaped off the cliff and spiraled high overhead, not really going anywhere, but rather
enjoying the pleasure of each other’s presence.

While the two dragons danced among the clouds, Oromis taught Eragon how a magician could transport
an object from one place to another without having the object traverse the intervening distance. “Most
forms of magic,” said Oromis, “require ever more energy to sustain as the distance between you and your
target increases. However, that is not the case in this particular instance. It would require the same
amount of energy to send the rock in my hand to the other side of that stream as it would to send it all the
way to the Southern Isles. For that reason, the spell is most useful when you need to transport an item
with magic across a distance so vast, it would kill you to move it normally through space. Even so, it is a
demanding spell, and you should only resort to it if all else has failed. To shift something as large as
Saphira’s egg, for example, would leave you too exhausted to move.”

Then Oromis taught Eragon the wording of the spell and several variations on it. Once he had
memorized the incantations to Oromis’s satisfaction, the elf had him attempt to shift the small rock he was
holding.

As soon as Eragon uttered the spell in its entirety, the rock vanished from the palm of Oromis’s hand
and, an instant later, re appeared in the middle of the clearing with a flash of blue light, a loud detonation,
and a surge of burning hot air. Eragon flinched from the noise and then gripped the branch of a nearby
tree to steady himself as his knees buckled and cold crept over his limbs. His scalp tingled as he gazed at
the rock, which lay in a circle of charred and flattened grass, and he remembered the moment when he
had first beheld Saphira’s egg.

“Well done,” said Oromis. “Now, can you tell me why the stone made that sound when it materialized in
the grass?”

Eragon paid close attention to everything Oromis said, but throughout the lesson, he continued to ponder
the question of the Menoa tree, even as he knew Saphira did as she soared high above. The longer he
considered it, the more he despaired of ever finding a solution.

When Oromis had finished teaching him how to shift objects, the elf asked, “Since you have declined
Lord Fiolr’s offer of Támerlein, will you and Saphira stay in Ellesméra much longer?”

“I don’t know, Master,” replied Eragon. “There is something more I wish to try with the Menoa tree, but
if it does not succeed, then I suppose we will have no choice but to depart for the Varden


empty-handed.”

Oromis nodded. “Before you leave, return here with Saphira one last time.”

“Yes, Master.”

As Saphira winged her way toward the Menoa tree with Eragon on her back, she said,It didn’t work
before. Why should it now?

It will work because it must. Besides, do you have a better idea?

No, but I like it not. We do not know how she might react. Remember, before Linnëa sang herself
into the tree, she killed the young man who betrayed her affections. She might resort to violence
again.

She won’t dare, not while you are there to protect me.

Mmh.

With a faint whisper of wind, Saphira alighted upon a knuckle-like root several hundred feet from the
base of the Menoa tree. The squirrels in the enormous pine screamed warnings to their brethren as they
noticed her arrival.

Sliding down onto the root, Eragon rubbed his palms on his thighs, then muttered, “Right, let’s not waste
time.” With light footsteps, he ran up the root to the trunk of the tree, holding his arms out on either side
to maintain his balance. Saphira followed at a slower pace, her claws splitting and cracking the bark she
trod over.

Eragon squatted on a slippery patch of wood and hooked his fingers through a crevice in the trunk of the
tree in order to keep himself from toppling over. He waited until Saphira was standing above him, and
then he closed his eyes, breathed deeply of the cool, moist air, and pushed his thoughts out toward the
tree.

The Menoa tree made no attempt to stop him from touching her mind, for her consciousness was so
large and alien, and so intertwined with that of the other plant life of the forest, it did not need to defend
itself. Anyone who attempted to seize control of the tree would also have to establish their mental
dominance over a large swath of Du Weldenvarden, a feat which no single person could hope to achieve.

From the tree, Eragon felt a sense of warmth and light and of the earth pressing against her roots for
hundreds of yards in every direction. He felt the stir of a breeze through the tree’s tangled branches and
the flow of sticky sap seeping over a small cut in its bark, and he received a host of similar impressions
from the other plants the Menoa tree watched over. Compared with the awareness it had displayed
during the Blood-oath Celebration, the tree almost seemed to be asleep; the only sentient thought Eragon
could detect was so long and slow-moving, it was impossible to decipher.

Summoning all of his resources, Eragon flung a mental shout at the Menoa tree.Please, listen to me, O
great tree! I need your help! The entire land is at war, the elves have left the safety of Du
Weldenvarden, and I do not have a sword to fight with! The werecat Solembum told me to look
under the Menoa tree when I needed a weapon. Well, that time has come! Please, listen to me, O
mother of the forest! Help me in my quest! While he spoke, Eragon pressed against the tree’s


consciousness images of Thorn and Murtagh and the armies of the Empire. Adding several more
memories to the mix, Saphira bolstered his efforts with the force of her own mind.

Eragon did not rely on words and images alone. From within himself and Saphira, he funneled a steady
stream of energy into the tree: a gift of good faith that he hoped might also rouse the Menoa tree’s
curiosity.

Several minutes elapsed, and still the tree did not acknowledge them, but Eragon refused to abandon
their attempt. The tree, he reasoned, moved at a slower pace than humans or elves; it was only to be
expected that it would not immediately respond to their request.

We cannot spare much more of our strength,said Saphira,not if we are to return to the Varden in a
timely fashion.

Eragon agreed and reluctantly stemmed the flow of energy.

While they continued to plead with the Menoa tree, the sun reached its zenith and then began to
descend. Clouds billowed and shrank and scuttled across the dome of the sky. Birds darted over the
trees, angry squirrels chattered, butterflies meandered from spot to spot, and a line of red ants marched
past Eragon’s boot, carrying small white larvae in their pincers.

Then Saphira snarled, and every bird within hearing fled in fright.Enough of this groveling! she
declared.I am a dragon, and I will not be ignored, not even by a tree!

“No, wait!” Eragon cried, sensing her intentions, but she ignored him.

Stepping back from the trunk of the Menoa tree, Saphira crouched, sank her claws deep into the root
underneath her, and, with a mighty wrench, tore three huge strips of wood out of the root.Come out and
speak with us, elf-tree! she roared. She drew back her head like a snake about to strike, and a pillar of
flame erupted from between her jaws, bathing the trunk in a storm of blue and white fire.

Covering his face, Eragon leaped away to escape the heat.

“Saphira, stop!” he shouted, horrified.

I will stop when she answers us.

A thick cloud of water droplets fell to the ground. Looking up, Eragon saw the branches of the pine
trembling and swaying with increasing agitation. The groan of wood rubbing against wood filled the air.
At the same time, an ice-cold breeze struck Eragon’s cheek, and he thought he felt a low rumble beneath
his feet. Glancing around, he saw that the trees that ringed the clearing seemed taller and more angular
than before, and they seemed to be leaning inward, their crooked branches reaching toward him like
talons.

And Eragon was afraid.

Saphira. . . , he said, and sank into a half crouch, ready to either run or fight.

Closing her jaws and thus ending the stream of fire, Saphira looked away from the Menoa tree. As she
beheld the ring of menacing trees, her scales rippled and the tips rose from her hide like the ruff on a riled
cat. She growled at the forest, swinging her head from side to side, then unfolded her wings and began to


retreat from the Menoa tree.Quick, get on my back .

Before Eragon could take a single step, a root as thick as his arm sprouted out of the ground and coiled
itself around his left ankle, immobilizing him. Even thicker roots appeared on either side of Saphira and
grasped her by the legs and tail, holding her in place. Saphira roared in fury and arched her neck to loose
another deluge of fire.

The flames in her mouth flickered and went out as a voice sounded in her mind and Eragon’s, a slow,
whispering voice that reminded Eragon of rustling leaves, and the voice said:Who dares to disturb my
peace? Who dares to bite me and burn me? Name yourselves, so I will know who it is I have killed
.

Eragon grimaced in pain as the root tightened around his ankle. A little more pressure and it would break
the bone.I am Eragon Shadeslayer, and this is the dragon with whom I am bonded, Saphira
Brightscales .

Die well, Eragon Shadeslayer and Saphira Brightscales.

Wait!Eragon said.I have not finished naming us .

A long silence followed, then the voice said,Continue .

I am the last free Dragon Rider in Alagaësia, and Saphira is the last female dragon in all of
existence. We are perhaps the only ones who can defeat Galbatorix, the traitor who has destroyed
the Riders and conquered half of Alagaësia.

Why did you hurt me, dragon?the voice sighed.

Saphira bared her teeth as she answered:Because you would not talk with us, elf-tree, and because
Eragon has lost his sword and a werecat told him to look under the Menoa tree when he needed a
weapon. We have looked and looked, but we cannot find it on our own .

Then you die in vain, dragon, for there is no weapon under my roots.

Desperate to keep the tree talking, Eragon said,We believe the werecat might have meant
brightsteel, the star metal Rhunön uses to forge the blades of the Riders. Without it, she cannot
replace my sword.

The surface of the earth rippled as the network of roots that covered the clearing shifted slightly. The
disturbance flushed hundreds of panicked rabbits, mice, voles, shrews, and other small creatures from
their burrows and dens, and sent them scampering across the open ground toward the main body of the
forest.

Out of the corner of his eye, Eragon saw dozens of elves running toward the clearing, their hair streaming
behind them like silk pennants. Silent as apparitions, the elves stopped underneath the boughs of the
encircling trees and stared at him and Saphira but made no move to approach or to assist them.

Eragon was about to call with his mind for Oromis and Glaedr when the voice returned.The werecat
knew whereof he spoke; there is a nodule of brightsteel ore buried at the very edge of my roots,
but you shall not have it. You bit me and you burned me, and I do not forgive you .


Alarm tempered Eragon’s excitement at hearing of the ore’s existence.But Saphira is the last female
dragon! he exclaimed.Surely you would not kill her!

Dragons breathe fire,whispered the voice, and a shudder ran through the trees at the edge of the
clearing.Fires must be extinguished .

Saphira growled again and said,If we cannot stop the man who destroyed the Dragon Riders, he will
come here and he will burn the forest around you, and then he will destroy you as well, elf-tree. If
you help us, though, we may be able to stop him.

A screech echoed among the trees as two branches scraped against each other.If he tries to kill my
seedlings, then he will die, said the voice.No one is as strong as the whole of the forest. No one can
hope to defeat the forest, and I speak for the forest .

Is not the energy we gave you enough to repair your wounds?asked Eragon.Is not it compensation
enough?

The Menoa tree did not answer but rather probed at Eragon’s mind, sweeping through his thoughts like
a gust of wind.What are you, Rider? said the tree.I know every creature that lives among this forest,
but never have I encountered one like you .

I am neither elf nor human,said Eragon.I am something in between. The dragons changed me
during the Blood-oath Celebration .

Why did they change you, Rider?

So that I could better fight Galbatorix and his empire.

I remember I felt a warping in the world during the celebration, but I did not think it was
important. . . . So little seems important now, save the sun and the rain.

Eragon said,We will heal your root and trunk if that will satisfy you, but please, may we have the
brightsteel?

The other trees creaked and moaned like abandoned souls, and then, soft and fluttering, the voice came
again.Will you give me what I want in return, Dragon Rider?

I will,Eragon said without hesitation. Whatever the price, he would gladly pay it for a Rider’s sword.

The canopy of the Menoa tree grew still, and for several minutes, all was quiet in the clearing. Then the
ground began to shake and the roots in front of Eragon began to twist and grind, shedding flakes of bark
as they pulled aside to reveal a bare patch of dirt, out of which emerged what appeared to be a lump of
corroded iron roughly two feet long and a foot and a half wide. As the ore came to rest on the surface of
the rich black soil, Eragon felt a slight twinge in his lower belly. He winced and rubbed at the spot, but
the momentary flare of discomfort had already vanished. Then the root around his ankle loosened and
retreated into the ground, as did those that had been holding Saphira in place.

Here is your metal,whispered the Menoa tree.Take it and go . . . .

But—Eragon started to ask.


Go. . . , said the Menoa tree, its voice fading away.Go . . . . And the tree’s consciousness withdrew
from him and Saphira, receding deeper and deeper into itself until Eragon could barely sense its
presence. Around them, looming pines relaxed and resumed their usual positions.

“But . . . ,” Eragon said out loud, puzzled that the Menoa tree had not told him what she wanted.

Still perplexed, he went over to the ore, slid his fingers under the edge of the metal-laced stone, and
hoisted the irregular mass into his arms, grunting at its weight. Hugging it against his chest, he turned away
from the Menoa tree and started the long walk toward Rhunön’s house.

Saphira sniffed the brightsteel as she joined him.You were right, she said.I should not have attacked
her .

At least we got the brightsteel,said Eragon,and the Menoa tree . . . well, I don’t know what she
got, but we have what we came for, and that’s what matters.

The elves gathered alongside the path Eragon had chosen to follow and gazed at Eragon and Saphira
with an intensity that made Eragon quicken his pace and the skin on the nape of his neck prickle. Not
once did the elves speak, only stared with their slanting eyes, stared as if they were watching a dangerous
animal stalk through their homes.

A puff of smoke billowed from Saphira’s nostrils.If Galbatorix does not kill us first, she said,I think
we shall live to regret this .

MIND OVERMETAL

“Where did you find that?” demanded Rhunön as Eragon staggered into the atrium of her house and
dropped the lump of brightsteel ore onto the ground by her feet.

In as few words as possible, Eragon explained about Solembum and the Menoa tree.

Squatting next to the ore, Rhunön caressed the pitted surface, her fingers lingering over the metallic
patches interspersed among the stone. “You were either very foolish or very brave to test the Menoa tree
as you did. She is not one to trifle with.”

Is there enough ore for a sword?Saphira asked.

“Several swords, if past experience is anything to judge by,” said Rhunön, rising to her full height. The elf
woman glanced at her forge in the center of the atrium, then clapped her hands together, her eyes lighting
up with a combination of eagerness and determination. “Let us to it, then! You need a sword,
Shadeslayer? Very well, I shall give you a sword the likes of which has never been seen before in
Alagaësia.”

“But what of your oath?” Eragon asked.

“Think not of it for the time being. When must the two of you return to the Varden?”


“We should have left the day we arrived,” said Eragon.

Rhunön paused, her expression introspective. “Then I shall have to hurry that which I do not normally
hurry and use magic to craft that which would otherwise require weeks of work by hand. You and
Brightscales will help me.” It was not a question, but Eragon nodded in agreement. “We shall not rest
tonight, but I promise you, Shade slayer, you shall have your sword by tomorrow morning.” Bending at
the knees, Rhunön lifted the ore from the ground without discernible effort and carried it to the bench
with her carving in progress.

Eragon removed his tunic and shirt, so he would not ruin them during the work to come, and in their
place Rhunön gave him a tight-fitting jerkin and a fabric apron treated so that it was impervious to fire.
Rhunön wore the same. When Eragon asked her about gloves, she laughed and shook her head. “Only a
clumsy smith uses gloves.”

Then Rhunön led him to a low, grotto-like chamber set within the trunk of one of the trees out of which
her house was grown. Inside the chamber were bags of charcoal and loose piles of whitish clay bricks.
By means of a spell, Eragon and Rhunön lifted several hundred bricks and carried them outside, next to
the open-walled forge, then did the same with the bags of charcoal, each of which was as large as a man.

Once the supplies were arranged to Rhunön’s satisfaction, she and Eragon built a smelter for the ore.
The smelter was a complex structure, and Rhunön refused to use much magic to construct it, so the
project took them most of the afternoon. First they dug a rectangular pit five feet deep, which they filled
with layers of sand, gravel, clay, charcoal, and ash, and in which they embedded a number of chambers
and channels to wick away moisture that would otherwise dampen the heat of the smelting fire. When the
contents of the pit were level with the ground, they assembled a trough of bricks on top of the layers
below, using water and unfired clay as their mortar. Ducking inside her house, Rhunön returned with a
pair of bellows, which they attached to holes at the base of the trough.

They broke then to drink and to eat a few bites of bread and cheese.

After the brief repast, Rhunön placed a handful of small branches in the trough, lit them on fire with a
murmured word, and, when the flames were well set, laid medium-sized pieces of seasoned oak along
the bottom. For nearly an hour, she tended the fire, cultivating it with the care of a gardener growing
roses, until the wood had burned down to an even bed of coals. Then Rhunön nodded to Eragon and
said, “Now.”

Eragon lifted the lump of ore and gently lowered it into the trough. When the heat on his fingers became
unbearable, he released the ore and jumped back as a fountain of sparks swirled upward like a swarm of
fireflies. On top of the ore and the coals, he shoveled a thick blanket of charcoal as fuel for the fire.

Eragon brushed the charcoal dust from his palms, then grasped the handles of one set of bellows and
began to pump it, as did Rhunön the bellows on the other side of the smelter. Between them, they
supplied the fire with a steady stream of fresh air so that it burned ever hotter.

The scales on Saphira’s chest, as well as on the underside of her head and neck, sparkled with dazzling
flashes of light as the flames in the smelter danced. She crouched several yards away, her eyes fixed upon
the molten heart of the fire.I could help with this, you know, she said.It would take me but a minute
to melt the ore .

“Yes,” said Rhunön, “but if we melt it too quickly, the metal will not combine with the charcoal and


become hard and flexible enough for a sword. Save your fire, dragon. We shall need it later.”

The heat from the smelter and the effort of pumping the bellows soon had Eragon covered in a sheen of
sweat; his bare arms shone in the light from the fire.

Every now and then, he or Rhunön would abandon their bellows to shovel a new layer of charcoal over
the fire.

The work was monotonous, and as a result, Eragon soon lost track of the time. The constant roar of the
fire, the feel of the bellows’ handle in his hands, the whoosh of rushing air, and Saphira’s vigilant presence
were the only things he was aware of.

It came as a surprise to him, then, when Rhunön said, “That should be sufficient. Leave the bellows.”

Wiping his brow, Eragon helped as she shoveled the incandescent coals out of the smelter and into a
barrel filled with water. The coals sizzled and emitted an acrid smell as they struck the liquid.

When they finally exposed the glowing pool of white-hot metal at the bottom of the trough—the slag and
other impurities having run off during the process—Rhunön covered the metal with an inch of fine white
ash, then leaned her shovel against the side of the smelter and went to sit on the bench by her forge.
“What now?” Eragon asked as he joined her.

“Now we wait.”

“For what?”

Rhunön gestured toward the sky, where the light from the setting sun painted a tattered array of clouds
red and purple and gold. “It must be dark when we work the metal if we are to correctly judge its color.
Also, the brightsteel needs time to cool so that it will be soft and easy to shape.”

Reaching around behind her head, Rhunön undid the cord that held back her hair, then gathered up her
hair again and retied the cord. “In the meantime, let us talk about your sword. How do you fight, with
one hand or two?”

Eragon thought for a minute, then said, “It varies. If I have a choice, I prefer to wield a sword with one
hand and carry a shield with my other. However, circumstances have not always been favorable to me,
and I have often had to fight without a shield. Then I like being able to grip the hilt with both hands, so I
can deliver a more powerful stroke. The pommel on Zar’roc was large enough to grasp with my left hand
if I had to, but the ridges around the ruby were uncomfortable and they did not afford me a secure hold.
It would be nice to have a slightly longer hilt.”

“I take it you do not want a true two-handed sword?” said Rhunön.

Eragon shook his head. “No, it would be too big for fighting indoors.”

“That depends upon the size of the hilt and the blade combined, but in general, you are correct. Would
you be amenable to a hand-and-a-half sword instead?”

An image flashed in Eragon’s mind of Murtagh’s original sword, and he smiled.Why not? thought
Eragon. “Yes, a hand-and-a-half sword would be perfect, I think.”


“And how long would you like the blade?”

“No longer than Zar’roc’s.”

“Mmh. Do you want a straight blade or a curved blade?”

“Straight.”

“Have you any preferences as to the guard?”

“Not especially.”

Crossing her arms, Rhunön sat with her chin touching her breastbone, her eyes heavy-lidded. Her lips
twitched. “What of the width of the blade? Remember, no matter how narrow it is, the sword shall not
break.”

“Perhaps it could be a little wider at the guard than Zar’roc was.”

“Why?”

“I think it might look better.”

A harsh, cracked laugh broke from Rhunön’s throat. “But how would that improve the use of the
sword?”

Embarrassed, Eragon shifted on the bench, at a loss for words.

“Never ask me to alter a weapon merely in order to improve its appearance,” admonished Rhunön. “A
weapon is a tool, and if it is beautiful, then it is beautiful because it is useful. A sword that could not fulfill
its function would be ugly to my eyes no matter how fair its shape, not even if it were adorned with the
finest jewels and the most intricate engraving.” The elf woman pursed her lips, pushing them out as she
thought. “So, a sword equally suited for the unrestrained bloodshed of a battlefield as it is for defending
yourself in the narrow tunnels under Farthen Dûr. A sword for all occasions, of middling length, but for
the hilt, which shall be longer than average.”

“A sword for killing Galbatorix,” said Eragon.

Rhunön nodded. “And as such, it must be well protected against magic. . . .” Her chin sank to her chest
again. “Armor has improved a great deal in the past century, so the tip will need to be narrower than I
used to make them, the better to pierce plate and mail and to slip into the gaps between the various
pieces. Mmh.” From a pouch by her side, Rhunön withdrew a knotted piece of twine, with which she
took numerous measurements of Eragon’s hands and arms. Afterward, she retrieved a wrought-iron
poker from the forge and tossed it toward Eragon. He caught it with one hand and raised an eyebrow at
the elf woman. She motioned toward him with a finger and said, “Go on now. Up on your feet and let me
see how you move with a sword.”

Walking out from under the roof of the open-walled forge, Eragon obliged her by demonstrating several
of the forms Brom had taught him. After a minute, he heard the clink of metal on stone, then Rhunön
coughed and said, “Oh, this is hopeless.” She stepped in front of Eragon, holding another poker. Her
brow furrowed with a fierce scowl as she raised the poker before her in a salute and shouted, “Have at
you, Shadeslayer!”


Rhunön’s heavy poker whistled through the air as she swung at him with a strong slashing blow. Dancing
to the side, Eragon parried the attack. The poker jumped in his hand as the two rods of metal collided.
For a brief while, he and Rhunön sparred. Although it was obvious she had not practiced her
swordsmanship for some time, Eragon still found her a formidable opponent. At last they were forced to
stop because the soft iron of the pokers had bent until the rods were as crooked as the branches of a
yew tree.

Rhunön collected Eragon’s poker, then carried the two mangled pieces of metal over to a pile of broken
tools. When she returned, the elf woman lifted her chin and said, “Now I know exactly what shape your
sword should have.”

“But how will you make it?”

A twinkle of amusement appeared in Rhunön’s eyes. “I won’t. You shall make the sword instead of me,
Shadeslayer.”

Eragon gaped at her for a moment, then sputtered and said, “Me? But I was never apprenticed to a
blacksmith or a bladesmith. I have not the skill to forge even a common brush knife.”

The twinkle in Rhunön’s eyes brightened. “Nevertheless, you shall be the one to make this sword.”

“But how? Will you stand beside me and give me orders as I hammer the metal?”

“Hardly,” said Rhunön. “No, I shall guide your actions from within your mind so that your hands may do
what mine cannot. It is not a perfect solution, but I can think of no other means of evading my oath that
will also allow me to ply my craft.”

Eragon frowned. “If you move my hands for me, how is that any different from making the sword
yourself?”

Rhunön’s expression darkened and, in a brusque voice, she said, “Do you want this sword or not,
Shadeslayer?”

“I do.”

“Then refrain from pestering me with such questions. Making the sword through you is different because
I think it is different. If I believed otherwise, then my oath would prevent me from participating in the
process. So, unless you wish to return to the Varden empty-handed, you would be wise to remain silent
on the subject.”

“Yes, Rhunön-elda.”

They went to the smelter then, and Rhunön had Saphira pry the still-warm mass of congealed brightsteel
from the bottom of the brick trough. “Break it into fist-sized pieces,” Rhunön directed, and withdrew to a
safe distance.

Lifting her front leg, Saphira stamped upon the rippled beam of brightsteel with all her strength. The earth
shook, and the brightsteel cracked in several places. Three more times Saphira stamped upon the metal
before Rhunön was satisfied with the results.


The elf woman gathered up the sharp lumps of metal in her apron and carried them to a low table next to
her forge. There she sorted the metal according to its hardness, which, or so she told Eragon, she was
able to determine by the color and texture of the fractured metal. “Some is too hard and some is too
soft,” she said, “and while I could remedy that if I wanted to, it would require another heating. So we will
only use the pieces that are already suitable for a sword. On the edges of the sword will go a slightly
harder steel”—she touched a cluster of pieces that had a brilliant, sparkling grain—“the better to take a
keen edge. The middle of the sword shall be made of a slightly softer steel”—she touched a cluster of
pieces that were grayer and not so bright—“the better to bend and to absorb the shock of a blow.
Before the metal can be forged into shape, though, it must be worked to rid it of the remaining
impurities.”

How is that done?asked Saphira.

“That you shall see momentarily.” Rhunön went to one of the poles that supported the roof of the forge,
sat with her back against it, crossed her legs, and closed her eyes, her face still and composed. “Are you
ready, Shadeslayer?” she asked.

“I am,” said Eragon, despite the tension gathered in his belly.

The first thing Eragon noticed about Rhunön as their minds met was the low chords that echoed through
the dark and tangled landscape of her thoughts. The music was slow and deliberate and cast in a strange
and unsettling key that scraped on his nerves. What it implied about Rhunön’s character, Eragon was not
sure, but the eerie melody caused him to reconsider the wisdom of allowing her to control his flesh. But
then he thought of Saphira sitting next to the forge, watching over him, and his trepidation receded, and
he lowered the last of the defenses around his consciousness.

It felt to Eragon like a piece of raw wool sliding over his skin as Rhunön enveloped his mind with hers,
insinuating herself into the most private areas of his being. He shivered at the contact and almost
withdrew from it, but then Rhunön’s rough voice sounded within his skull:Relax, Shadeslayer, and all
shall be well .

Yes, Rhunön-elda.

Then Rhunön began to lift his arms, shift his legs, roll his head, and otherwise experiment with the abilities
of his body. Strange as it was for Eragon to feel his head and limbs move without his direction, it was
stranger still when his eyes began to flick from place to place, seemingly of their own accord. The
sensation of helplessness kindled a burst of sudden panic within Eragon. When Rhunön walked him
forward and his foot struck the corner of the forge and it seemed as if he were going to fall, Eragon
immediately reasserted command over his faculties and grabbed the horn of Rhunön’s anvil to steady
himself.

Do not interfere,snapped Rhunön.If your nerve fails you at the wrong moment during the forging,
you could cause yourself irreparable harm .

So could you if you’re not careful,Eragon retorted.

Be patient, Shadeslayer. I shall have mastered this by the time it is dark.

While they waited for the last of the light to fade from the velvet sky, Rhunön prepared the forge and


practiced wielding various tools. Her initial clumsiness with Eragon’s body soon disappeared, although
once she reached for a hammer and rammed the tips of his fingers into the top of a table. The pain made
Eragon’s eyes water. Rhunön apologized and said,Your arms are longer than mine . A few minutes
later, when they were about to begin, she commented,It is fortunate you have the speed and strength
of an elf, Shadeslayer, else we would have no hope of finishing this tonight .

Taking the pieces of hard and soft brightsteel she had decided to use, Rhunön placed them into the
forge. At the elf’s request, Saphira heated the steel, opening her jaws only a fraction of an inch so that the
blue and white flames that poured from her mouth remained focused in a narrow stream and did not spill
over into the rest of the workshop. The roaring pillar of fire illuminated the entire atrium with a fierce blue
light and made Saphira’s scales sparkle and flash with blinding brilliance.

Rhunön had Eragon remove the brightsteel from the torrent of flames with a pair of tongs once the metal
began to glow cherry red. She laid it on her anvil and, with a series of quick blows from a sledgehammer,
flattened the lumps of metal into plates that were no more than a quarter of an inch thick. The surface of
the red-hot steel glittered with incandescent motes. As she finished with each plate, Rhunön dropped it
into a nearby trough of brine.

Having flattened all of the brightsteel, Rhunön pulled the plates out of the trough, the brine warm against
Eragon’s arm, and scoured each plate with a piece of sandstone to remove the black scales that had
formed on the surface of the metal. The scouring exposed the crystalline structure of the metal, which
Rhunön examined with great attentiveness. She further sorted the metal by relative hardness and purity
according to the qualities the crystals displayed.

Eragon was privy to Rhunön’s every thought and feeling, by reason of their closeness. The depth of her
knowledge amazed him; she saw things within the metal he had not suspected existed, and the
calculations she made concerning its treatment were beyond his understanding. He also sensed she was
dissatisfied with how she had handled the sledgehammer while flattening the steel.

Rhunön’s dissatisfaction continued to grow until she said,Bah! Look at these dents in the metal! I
cannot forge a blade like this. My control over your arms and hands is not fine enough to craft a
sword worthy of note .

Before Eragon could attempt to reason with her, Saphira said,The tools do not the artist make,
Rhunön-elda. Surely you can find a way to compensate for this inconvenience.

Inconvenience?snorted Rhunön.I have no more coordination than a fledgling. I am a stranger in a
stranger’s house . Still grumbling, she subsided into mental deliberations that were incomprehensible to
Eragon, then said,Well, I may have a solution, but I warn you, I shall not continue if I am unable to
maintain my usual level of craftsmanship .

She did not explain the solution to either Eragon or Saphira but, one by one, placed the plates of steel on
the anvil and cracked them into flakes no wider than rose petals. Gathering up half the flakes of the
harder brightsteel, Rhunön stacked them into a brick, which she then coated with clay and birch bark to
hold them together. The brick went on a thick steel paddle with a seven-foot-long handle, similar to those
used by bakers to insert and remove loaves of bread from a hot oven.

Rhunön laid the end of the paddle in the center of the forge and then backed Eragon as far away as she
could and still have him hold on to the handle. Then she asked Saphira to resume breathing fire, and again
the atrium glowed with a flickering blue radiance. The heat was so intense, Eragon felt as if his exposed
skin were crisping, and he saw that the granite stones of which the forge was made had acquired a bright


yellow glow.

The brightsteel could easily have taken over half an hour to reach the appropriate temperature in a
charcoal fire, but it required only a few minutes in the withering inferno of Saphira’s flames before it
turned white. The moment it did, Rhunön ordered Saphira to cease breathing fire. Darkness engulfed the
forge as Saphira closed her jaws.

Rushing Eragon forward, Rhunön had him transport the glowing brick of clay-covered steel to the anvil,
where she seized a hammer and welded the disparate flakes of brightsteel into a cohesive whole. She
continued to pound on the metal, elongating it out into a bar, then made a cut in the middle, folded the
metal back on itself, and welded the two pieces together. The bell-like peals of ringing metal echoed off
the ancient trees that surrounded the atrium.

Rhunön had Eragon return the brightsteel to the forge once its color had faded from white to yellow, and
again Saphira bathed the metal with the fire from her belly. Six times Rhunön heated and folded the
brightsteel, and each time the metal became smoother and more flexible, until it could bend without
tearing.

As Eragon hammered the steel, his every action dictated by Rhunön, the elf woman began to sing, both
with his tongue and her own. Together, their voices formed a not-unpleasant harmony that rose and fell
with the beats of the hammer. A tingle crawled down Eragon’s spine as he felt Rhunön channel a steady
flow of energy into the words they were mouthing, and he realized that the song contained spells of
making, shaping, and binding. With their voices two, Rhunön sang of the metal that lay on the anvil,
describing its properties—altering them in ways that exceeded Eragon’s understanding—and imbuing the
brightsteel with a complex web of enchantments designed to give it strength and resilience beyond that of
any ordinary metal. Of Eragon’s hammer arm Rhunön also sang, and under the gentle influence of her
crooning, every blow she struck with his arm landed upon its intended target.

Rhunön quenched the bar of brightsteel after the sixth and final fold was complete. She repeated the
entire process with the other half of the hard brightsteel, forging an identical bar to the first. Then she
gathered up the fragments of the softer steel, which she folded and welded ten times before forming it into
a short, heavy wedge.

Next, Rhunön had Saphira reheat the two bars of harder steel. Rhunön lay the shining rods side by side
on her anvil, grasped both of them at either end with a pair of tongs, and then twisted the rods around
each other seven times. Sparks shot into the air as she hammered upon the twists to weld them into a
single piece of metal. The resulting mass of brightsteel Rhunön folded, welded, and pounded back out to
length another six times. When she was pleased with the quality of the metal, Rhunön flattened the
brightsteel into a thick rectangular sheet, cut the sheet in half lengthwise with a sharp chisel, and bent each
of the two halves down their middle, so they were in the shape of long, shallow V’s.

And all that, Eragon estimated, Rhunön was able to accomplish within the course of an hour and a half.
He marveled at her speed, even though it was his own body that carried out the tasks. Never before had
he seen a smith shape metal with such ease; what would have taken Horst hours took her only minutes.
And yet no matter how demanding the forging was, Rhunön continued to sing, weaving a fabric of spells
within the brightsteel and guiding Eragon’s arm with infallible accuracy.

Amid the frenzy of noise, fire, sparks, and exertion, Eragon thought he glimpsed, as Rhunön raked his
eyes across the forge, a trio of slender figures standing by the edge of the atrium. Saphira confirmed his
suspicion a moment later when she said,Eragon, we are not alone .


Who are they?he asked. Saphira sent him an image of the short, wizened werecat Maud, in human
form, standing between two pale elves who were no taller than she. One of the elves was male, the other
female, and they were both extraordinarily beautiful, even by the standards of the elves. Their solemn
teardrop faces seemed wise and innocent in equal measure, which made it impossible for Eragon to judge
their age. Their skin displayed a faint, silvery sheen, as if the two elves were so filled with energy, it was
seeping out of their very flesh.

Eragon queried Rhunön as to the identity of the elves when she paused to allow his body a brief rest.
Rhunön glanced at them, affording him a slightly better view, then, without interrupting her song, she said
with her thoughts,They are Alanna and Dusan, the only elf children in Ellesméra. There was much
rejoicing when they were conceived twelve years ago .

They are like no other elves I have met,he said.

Our children are special, Shadeslayer. They are blessed with certain gifts—gifts of grace and gifts
of power—which no grown elf can hope to match. As we age, our blossom withers somewhat,
although the magic of our early years never completely abandons us.

Rhunön wasted no more time talking. She had Eragon place the wedge of brightsteel between the two
V-shaped strips and hammer on them until the strips nearly enveloped the wedge and friction held the
three pieces together. Then Rhunön welded the pieces into a whole, and while the metal was still hot, she
began to draw it out and form a rough blank of the sword. The soft wedge became the spine of the
blade, while the two harder strips became the sides, edges, and point. Once the blank was nearly as long
as the finished sword, the work slowed as Rhunön returned to the tang and carefully hammered her way
up the blade, establishing the final angles and proportions.

Rhunön had Saphira heat the blade in segments of no more than six or seven inches at a time, which
Rhunön arranged by holding the blade over one of Saphira’s nostrils, through which Saphira would
release a single jet of fire. A host of writhing shadows fled toward the perimeter of the atrium every time
the fire sprang into existence.

Eragon watched with amazement as his hands transformed the crude lump of metal into an elegant
instrument of war. With every blow, the outline of the blade became clearer, as if the brightsteelwanted
to be a sword and was eager to assume the shape Rhunön desired.

At last the forging came to a close, and there on the anvil lay a long black blade, which, although it was
still rough and incomplete, already radiated a sense of deadly purpose.

Rhunön allowed Eragon’s tired arms to rest while the blade cooled by air, then she had Eragon take the
blade to another corner of her workshop, where she had arranged six different grinding wheels and, on a
small bench, a wide assortment of files, scrapers, and abrasive stones. She fixed the blade between two
blocks of wood and spent the next hour planing the sides of the sword with a drawknife, as well as
refining the contours of the blade with files. As with the hammering, every stroke of the drawknife and
every scrape of a file seemed to have twice the effect it normally would; it was as if the tools knew
exactly how much steel to remove and would remove no more.

When she was done filing, Rhunön built a charcoal fire in her forge, and while she waited for the fire to
mature, she mixed a slurry of dark, fine-grained clay, ash, powdered pumice, and crystallized juniper sap.
She painted the blade with the concoction, slathering twice as much on the spine as she did along the
edges and by the point. The thicker the solution of clay, the slower the underlying metal would cool when
it was quenched and, as a result, the softer that area of the sword would become.


The clay lightened as Rhunön dried it with a quick incantation. At the direction of the elf woman, Eragon
went to the forge. He lay the sword flat upon the bed of scintillating coals and, pumping the bellows with
his free hand, slowly pulled it toward his hip. Once the tip of the blade came free of the fire, Rhunön
turned it over and repeated the sequence. She continued to draw the blade through the coals until both
edges had acquired an even orange tone and the spine of the sword was bright red in color. Then, with a
single smooth motion, Rhunön lifted the sword from the coals, swept the glowing bar of steel through the
air, and plunged it into the trough of water next to the forge.

An explosive cloud of steam erupted from the surface of the water, which hissed and sizzled and
bubbled around the blade. After a minute, the roiling water subsided, and Rhunön withdrew the now
pearl-gray sword. Returning it to the fire, she brought the whole sword to the same low heat, so as to
reduce the brittleness of the edges, and then quenched it once more.

Eragon had expected Rhunön to relinquish her hold on his body after they had forged, hardened, and
tempered the blade, but to his surprise, she remained in his mind and continued to control his limbs.

Rhunön had him douse the forge, then she walked Eragon back to the bench with the files and scrapers
and abrasive stones. There she sat him, and making use of ever finer stones, she polished the blade.
From her memories, Eragon learned that she would normally spend a week or more polishing a blade,
but because of the song they sang, she, through him, was able to complete the task in a mere four hours,
in addition to carving a narrow groove down the middle of each side of the blade. As the brightsteel grew
smoother, the true beauty of the metal was revealed; within it, Eragon could see a shimmering, cable-like
pattern, every line of which marked the transition between two layers of the velvety steel. And along each
edge of the sword was a rippling, silvery white band as wide as his thumb, which made it appear as if the
edges burned with tongues of frozen fire.

The muscles in Eragon’s right arm gave way as Rhunön was covering the tang with decorative
cross-hatching, and the file he was holding slipped off the tang and fell from his fingers. The extent of his
exhaustion surprised him, for he had been concentrating upon the sword to the exclusion of all else.

Enough,said Rhunön, and she removed herself from Eragon’s mind without further ado.

Shocked by her sudden absence, Eragon swayed on his seat and nearly lost his balance before he
regained control over his rebellious limbs. “But we’re not finished!” he protested, turning toward Rhunön.
The night sounded unnaturally quiet to him without the strains of their extended duet.

Rhunön rose from where she had been sitting cross-legged against the pole and shook her head. “I have
no more need of you, Shadeslayer. Go and dream until dawn.”

“But—”

“You are tired, and even with my magic, you are liable to ruin the sword if you continue to work on it.
Now that the blade is done, I can attend to the rest without interference from my oath, so go. You will
find a bed on the second floor of my house. If you are hungry, there is food in the pantry.”

Eragon hesitated, reluctant to leave, then nodded and shambled away from the bench, his feet dragging
in the dirt. As he passed her, he ran a hand over Saphira’s wing and bade her good night, too weary to
say more. In return, she tousled his hair with a warm puff of air and said,I shall watch and remember
for you, little one .


Eragon paused on the threshold of Rhunön’s house and looked across the shadowy atrium to where
Maud and the two elf children were still standing. He raised a hand in greeting, and Maud smiled at him,
baring her sharp, pointed teeth. A tingle crawled down Eragon’s neck as the elf children gazed at him;
their large, slanted eyes were slightly luminous in the gloom. When they made no other motion, he ducked
his head and hurried inside, eager to lie down upon a soft mattress.

A RIDER INFULL

Wake, little one,said Saphira.The sun has risen and Rhunön is impatient .

Eragon bolted upright, throwing off his blankets as easily as he cast off his waking dreams. His arms and
shoulders were sore from his exertions of the previous day. He pulled on his boots, fumbling with the
laces in his excitement, grabbed his grimy apron from the floor, and bounded down the elaborately
carved stairs to the entryway of Rhunön’s curved house.

Outside, the sky was bright with the first light of dawn, although shadow still enveloped the atrium.
Eragon spotted Rhunön and Saphira by the open-walled forge and trotted over to them, combing his hair
into place with his fingers.

Rhunön stood leaning against the edge of the bench. There were dark bags under her eyes, and the lines
on her face were heavier than before.

The sword lay before her, concealed beneath a length of white cloth.

“I have done the impossible,” she said, the words hoarse and broken. “I made a sword when I swore I
would not. What is more, I made it in less than a day and with hands that were not my own. Yet the
sword is not crude or shoddy. No! It is the finest sword I have ever forged. I would have preferred to
use less magic during the process, but that is my only qualm, and it is a small one compared with the
perfection of the results. Behold!”

Grasping the corner of the cloth, Rhunön pulled it aside, revealing the sword.

Eragon gasped.

He had thought that in the handful of hours since he had left her, Rhunön would only have had enough
time to fabricate a plain hilt and crossguard for the sword, and maybe a simple wooden scabbard.
Instead, the sword Eragon saw on the bench was as magnificent as Zar’roc, Naegling, and Támerlein
and, in his opinion, more beautiful than any of them.

Covering the blade was a glossy scabbard of the same dark blue as the scales on Saphira’s back. The
color displayed a slight variegation, like the mottled light at the bottom of a clear forest pond. A piece of
blued brightsteel carved in the shape of a leaf capped the end of the scabbard while a collar decorated
with stylized vines encircled the mouth. The curved crossguard was also made of blued brightsteel, as
were the four ribs that held in place the large sapphire that formed the pommel. The hand-and-a-half hilt
was made of hard black wood.


Overcome by a sense of reverence, Eragon reached out toward the sword, then paused and glanced at
Rhunön. “May I?” he asked.

She inclined her head. “You may. I give it to thee, Shadeslayer.”

Eragon lifted the sword from the bench. The scabbard and the wood of the hilt were cool to the touch.
For several minutes, he marveled at the details on the scabbard and the guard and the pommel. Then he
tightened his grip around the hilt and unsheathed the blade.

Like the rest of the sword, the blade was blue, but of a slightly lighter shade; it was the blue of the scales
in the hollow of Saphira’s throat rather than the blue of those on her back. And as it was on Zar’roc, the
color was iridescent; as Eragon moved the sword about, the color would shimmer and shift, displaying
any of the many tones of blue present on Saphira herself. Through the wash of color, the cable-like
patterns within the brightsteel and the pale bands along the edges were still visible.

With a single hand, Eragon swung the sword through the air, and he laughed at how light and fast it felt.
The sword almost seemed alive. He grasped the sword with both his hands then and was delighted to
find that they fit perfectly on the longer hilt. Lunging forward, he stabbed at an imaginary enemy and was
confident they would have died from the attack.

“Here,” said Rhunön, and pointed at a bundle of three iron rods planted upright in the ground outside the
forge. “Try it on those.”

Eragon allowed himself a moment to focus his thoughts, then took a single step toward the rods. With a
yell, he slashed downward and cut through all three rods. The blade emitted a single pure note that slowly
faded into silence. When Eragon examined the edge where it had struck the iron, he saw that the impact
had not damaged it in the slightest.

“Are you well pleased, Dragon Rider?” Rhunön asked.

“More than pleased, Rhunön-elda,” said Eragon, and bowed to her. “I do not know how I can thank
you for such a gift.”

“You may thank me by killing Galbatorix. If there is any sword destined to slay that mad king, it is this
one.”

“I shall try my hardest, Rhunön-elda.”

The elf woman nodded, appearing satisfied. “Well, you finally have a sword of your own, which is as it
ought to be.Now you are truly a Dragon Rider!”

“Yes,” said Eragon, and held the sword up toward the sky, admiring it. “Now I am truly a Rider.”

“Before you leave, one last thing remains for you to do,” said Rhunön.

“Oh?”

She flicked a finger toward the sword. “You must name it so I can mark the blade and scabbard with
the appropriate glyph.”

Eragon walked over to Saphira and said,What do you think?


I am not the one who must carry the blade. Name it as you see fit.

Yes, but you must have some ideas!

She lowered her head toward him and sniffed at the sword, then said,Blue-gem-tooth is what I would

name it. Or Blue-claw-red .

That would sound ridiculous to humans.

Then what of Reaver or Gutripper? Or maybe Battleclaw or Glitter-thorn or Limbhacker? You
could name it Terror or Pain or Armbiter or Eversharp or Ripplescale: that on account of the
lines in the steel. There is also Tongue of Death and Elfsteel and Starmetal and many others
besides.

Her sudden outpouring surprised Eragon.You have a talent for this, he said.
Inventing random names is easy. Inventing the right name, however, can try the patience of even


an elf.


What of Kingkiller?he asked.


And what if we actually kill Galbatorix? What, then? Will you do nothing else of worth with your


sword?
Mmh. Placing the sword alongside Saphira’s left foreleg, Eragon said,It’s exactly the same color as

you. . . . I could name it after you .

A low growl sounded in Saphira’s chest.No .

He fought back a smile.Are you sure? Just imagine if we were in battle and —

Her claws sank into the earth.No. I am not a thing for you to wave about and make fun of .

No, you’re right. I’m sorry. . . . Well, what if I named it Hope in the ancient language?Zar’roc

means “misery,” so wouldn’t it be fitting if I were to wield a sword that by its very name would
counteract misery?

A noble sentiment,said Saphira.But do you really want to give your enemies hope? Do you want to
stab Galbatorix with hope?

It’s an amusing pun,he said, chuckling.

Once, maybe, but no more.

Stymied, Eragon grimaced and rubbed his chin, studying the play of light across the glittering blade. As
he gazed into the depths of the steel, his eye chanced upon the flamelike pattern that marked the
transition between the softer steel of the spine and that of the edges, and he recalled the word Brom had
used to light his pipe during the memory Saphira had shared with him. Then Eragon thought of Yazuac,
where he had first used magic, and also of his duel with Durza in Farthen Dûr, and in that instant he knew
without doubt that he had found the right name for his sword.


Eragon consulted with Saphira, and when she agreed with his choice, he lifted the weapon to shoulder
level and said, “I am decided. Sword, I name thee Brisingr!”

And with a sound like rushing wind, the blade burst into fire, an envelope of sapphire-blue flames
writhing about the razor-sharp steel.

Uttering a startled cry, Eragon dropped the sword and jumped back, afraid of being burned. The blade
continued to blaze on the ground, the translucent flames charring a nearby clump of grass. It was then that
Eragon realized it was he who was providing the energy to sustain the unnatural fire. He quickly ended
the magic, and the fire vanished from the sword. Puzzled by how he could have cast a spell without
intending to, he picked up the sword again and tapped the blade with the tip of a finger. It was no hotter
than before.

A heavy scowl on her brow, Rhunön stalked forward, seized the sword from Eragon, and examined it
from tip to pommel. “You are fortunate I have already protected it with wards against heat and damage,
else you would have just scratched the guard and destroyed the temper of the blade. Do not drop the
sword again, Shadeslayer—even if it should turn into a snake—or else I shall take it back and give you a
worn-out hammer instead.” Eragon apologized, and appearing somewhat mollified, Rhunön handed the
sword back to him. “Did you set fire to it on purpose?” she asked.

“No,” said Eragon, unable to explain what had happened.

“Say it again,” ordered Rhunön.

“What?”

“The name, the name, say it again.”

Holding the sword as far away from his body as he could, Eragon exclaimed, “Brisingr!”

A column of flickering flames engulfed the blade of the sword, the heat warming Eragon’s face. This time
Eragon noticed the slight drain on his strength from the spell. After a few moments, he extinguished the
smokeless fire.

Once more Eragon exclaimed, “Brisingr!” And once more the blade shimmered with blue, wraithlike
tongues of flame.

Now there is a fitting sword for a Rider and dragon!said Saphira in a delighted tone.It breathes fire
as easily as I do .

“But I wasn’t trying to cast a spell!” protested Eragon. “All I did was sayBrisingr and—” He yelped
and swore as the sword again caught fire, which he put out for the fourth time.

“May I?” asked Rhunön, extending a hand toward Eragon. He gave her the sword, and she too said,
“Brisingr!” A shiver seemed to run down the blade, but other than that, it remained inanimate. Her
expression contemplative, Rhunön returned the sword to Eragon and said, “I can think of two
explanations for this marvel. One is that because you were involved with the forging, you imbued the
blade with a portion of your personality and therefore it has become attuned to your wishes. My other
explanation is that you have discovered the true name of your sword. Perhaps both those things are what
has happened. In any event, you have chosen well, Shadeslayer. Brisingr! Yes, I like it. It is a good name


for a sword.”

A very good name,Saphira agreed.

Then Rhunön placed her hand over the middle of Brisingr’s blade and murmured an inaudible spell. The
Elvish glyph forfire appeared upon both sides of the blade. She did the same to the front of the
scabbard.

Again Eragon bowed to the elf woman, and both he and Saphira expressed their gratitude to her. A
smile appeared on Rhunön’s aged face, and she touched each of them upon their brows with her callused
thumb. “I am glad I was able to help the Riders this once more. Go, Shadeslayer. Go, Brightscales.
Return to the Varden, and may your enemies flee with fear when they see the sword you now wield.”

So Eragon and Saphira bade her farewell, and together they departed Rhunön’s house, Eragon cradling
Brisingr in his arms as he would a newborn child.

GREAVES ANDBRACERS

Asingle candle lit the inside of the gray wool tent, a poor substitute for the radiance of the sun.

Roran stood with his arms outstretched while Katrina laced up the sides of the padded jerkin she had
fitted for him. When she finished, she tugged on the hem of the jerkin, smoothing out the wrinkles, and
said, “There now. Is it too tight?”

He shook his head. “No.”

She retrieved his greaves from the cot they shared and knelt before him in the flickering candlelight.
Roran watched as she buckled the greaves onto his lower legs. She cupped the curve of his calf with her
hand as she secured the second piece of armor, her flesh warm against his through the fabric of his
trousers.

Standing, she turned to the cot again and picked up his bracers. Roran held out his arms toward her and
stared into her eyes, even as she stared into his. With slow, deliberate motions, she fastened the bracers
onto his forearms, then drew her hands from the inside of his elbow down to his wrists, where he clasped
her hands with his own.

She smiled and pulled free of his gentle grip.

Next from the cot, she took his shirt of mail. She rose up onto the tips of her toes and lifted the hauberk
over his head and held it there while he fit his arms into the sleeves. The mail tinkled like ice as she
released it and it fell onto his shoulders, unfurling so that the lower edge hung level with his knees.

On his head, she set his leather arming cap, tying it firmly in place with a knot under his chin. She held his
face between her hands for a moment, then kissed him once upon the lips and fetched his peaked helm,


which she carefully slid over the arming cap.
Roran slipped his arm around her thickening waist as she started back toward the cot, stopping her.
“Listen to me,” he said. “I’ll be fine.” He tried to convey all his love for her through the tone of his voice


and the strength of his gaze. “Don’t just sit here all alone. Promise me that. Go to Elain; she could use
your help. She’s sick, and her child is overdue.”
Katrina lifted her chin, her eyes gleaming with tears he knew she would not shed until after he had left.


“Must you march in the front line?” she whispered.
“Someone must, and it might as well be me. Whom would you send in my stead?”
“Anyone . . . anyone at all.” Katrina looked down and was silent for a span, then she removed a red

kerchief from the bodice of her dress and said, “Here, carry this favor of mine, so that the whole world

may know how proud I am of you.” And she tied the kerchief to his sword belt.
Roran kissed her twice and released her, and she fetched his shield and spear from the cot. He kissed
her a third time as he took them from her, then fit his arm through the strap on his shield.

“If something does happen to me—” he began to say.
Katrina placed a finger upon his lips. “Shh. Speak not of it, lest it should come true.”
“Very well.” He hugged her one last time. “Be safe.”
“And you.”
Although he hated to leave her, Roran raised his shield and strode out of the tent into the pale light of


dawn. Men, dwarves, and Urgals streamed westward through the camp, heading toward the trampled


field where the Varden were assembling.
Roran filled his lungs with the cool morning air and then followed, knowing that his band of warriors
would be waiting for him. Once he arrived at the field, he sought out Jörmundur’s division and, after
reporting to Jörmundur, made his way to the front of the group, where he chose to stand next to Yarbog.

The Urgal glanced at him, then grunted, “A good day for a battle.”
“A good day.”
A horn sounded at the forefront of the Varden as soon as the sun broke over the horizon. Roran hefted


his spear and began to run forward, like everyone else around him, howling at the top of his lungs as
arrows rained down upon them and boulders whistled past overhead, flying in either direction. Ahead of
him, a stone wall eighty feet tall loomed.

The siege of Feinster had begun.


LEAVE-TAKING

From Rhunön’s house, Saphira and Eragon flew back to their tree house. Eragon gathered up his
belongings from the bedroom, saddled Saphira, and then returned to his usual place upon the crest of her
shoulders.

Before we go to the Crags of Tel’naeír,he said,there is one more thing I must do in Ellesméra .

Must you?she asked.

I won’t be content unless I do.

Saphira leaped out from the tree house. She glided westward until the number of buildings began to
diminish, and then she angled downward for a soft landing upon a narrow, moss-covered path. After
asking for, and getting, directions from an elf who was sitting in the branches of a nearby tree, Eragon
and Saphira continued through the woods until they arrived at a small one-room house grown out of the
bole of a fir tree that stood at an acute angle, as if a constant wind pressed against it.

To the left of the house was a soft bank of earth taller by several feet than Eragon. A rivulet of water
tumbled over the edge of the bank and poured itself into a limpid pool before meandering off into the dim
recesses of the forest. White orchids lined the pool. A bulbous root protruded out of the ground from
among the slender flowers that grew along the near shore, and sitting cross-legged upon the root was
Sloan.

Eragon held his breath, not wanting to alert the other man to his presence.

The butcher wore robes of brown and orange, after the fashion of the elves. A thin black strip of cloth
was tied around his head, concealing the gaping holes where his eyes had been. In his lap, he held a
length of seasoned wood, which he was whittling with a small, curved knife. His face was covered with
far more lines than Eragon remembered, and upon his hands and arms were several new scars, livid
against the surrounding skin.

Wait here,Eragon said to Saphira, and slipped off her back.

As Eragon approached him, Sloan paused in his carving and cocked his head. “Go away,” he rasped.

Not knowing how to respond, Eragon stopped where he was and remained silent.

The muscles in his jaw rippling, Sloan removed another few curls from the wood he held, then tapped
the tip of his knife against the root and said, “Blast you. Can you not leave me alone with my misery for a
few hours? I don’t want to listen to any bard or minstrel of yours, and no matter how many times you ask
me, I won’t change my mind. Now go on. Away with you.”

Pity and anger welled up inside Eragon, and also a sense of displacement at seeing a man he had grown
up around, and had so often feared and disliked, brought to such a state. “Are you comfortable?” Eragon
asked in the ancient language, adopting a light, lilting tone.

Sloan uttered a growl of disgust. “You know I cannot understand your tongue and I do not wish to learn
it. The words ring in my ears longer than they ought to. If you will not speak in the language of my race,


then do not speak to me at all.”

Despite Sloan’s entreaty, Eragon did not repeat the question in their common language, nor did he
depart.

With a curse, Sloan resumed his whittling. After every other stroke, he ran his right thumb over the
surface of the wood, checking the progress of whatever he was carving. Several minutes passed, and
then in a softer voice, Sloan said, “You were right; having something to do with my hands calms my
thoughts. Sometimes . . . sometimes I can almost forget what I have lost, but the memories always return,
and I feel as if I am choking on them. . . . I am glad you sharpened the knife. A man’s knives should
always be sharp.”

Eragon watched him for a minute more, then he turned away and walked back to where Saphira was
waiting. As he pulled himself into the saddle, he said,Sloan does not seem to have changed very much
.

And Saphira replied,You cannot expect him to become someone else entirely in such a short time .

No, but I had hoped he would learn something of wisdom here in Ellesméra and that maybe he
would repent of his crimes.

If he does not wish to acknowledge his mistakes, Eragon, nothing can force him to. In any event,
you have done all you can for him. Now he must find a way to reconcile himself with his lot. If he
cannot, then let him seek the solace of the everlasting grave.

From a clearing close to Sloan’s house, Saphira launched herself up and over the surrounding trees and
headed north toward the Crags of Tel’naeír, flapping as hard and fast as she could. The morning sun sat
full upon the horizon, and the rays of light that streamed out over the treetops created long, dark shadows
that, as one, pointed to the west like purple pennants.

Saphira descended toward the clearing by Oromis’s pinewood house, where Glaedr and Oromis stood
waiting for them. Eragon was startled to see that Glaedr was wearing a saddle nestled between two of
the towering spikes on his back and that Oromis was garbed in heavy traveling robes of blue and green,
over which he wore a corselet of golden scale armor, as well as bracers upon his arms. A tall,
diamond-shaped shield was slung across his back, an archaic helm rested in the crook of his left arm, and
around his waist was belted his bronze-colored sword, Naegling.

With a gust of wind from her wings, Saphira alighted upon the sward of grass and clover. She flicked out
her tongue, tasting the air as Eragon slid to the ground.Are you going to fly with us to the Varden? she
asked. The tip of her tail twitched with excitement.

“We shall fly with you as far as the edge of Du Weldenvarden, but there our paths must part,” said
Oromis.

Disappointed, Eragon asked, “Will you return to Ellesméra then?”

Oromis shook his head. “No, Eragon. Then we shall continue onward to the city of Gil’ead.”

Saphira hissed with surprise, a sentiment Eragon shared. “Why to Gil’ead?” he asked, bewildered.

Because Islanzadí and her army have marched there from Ceunon, and they are about to lay


siege to the city,said Glaedr. The strange, gleaming structures of his mind brushed against Eragon’s
consciousness.

But do not you and Oromis wish to keep your existence hidden from the Empire?Saphira asked.

Oromis closed his eyes for a moment, his expression withdrawn and enigmatic. “The time for hiding has
passed, Saphira. Glaedr and I have taught the two of you everything we could in the brief while you were
able to study under us. It was a paltry education compared with that you would have received of old, but
given how events press on us, we are fortunate to have been able to teach you as much as we did.
Glaedr and I are satisfied that you now know everything that might help you to defeat Galbatorix.

“Therefore, since it seems unlikely that either of you will have a chance to return here for further
instruction before the conclusion of this war, and since it seems even more unlikely that there shall ever be
another dragon and Rider for us to instruct while Galbatorix still bestrides the warm earth, we have
decided that we no longer have any reason to remain sequestered in Du Weldenvarden. It is more
important that we help Islanzadí and the Varden overthrow Galbatorix than we tarry here in idle comfort
while we wait for another Rider and dragon to seek us out.

“When Galbatorix learns that we are still alive, it shall undermine his confidence, for he shall not know if
other dragons and Riders have survived his attempt to exterminate them. Also, knowledge of our
existence shall bolster the spirits of the dwarves and the Varden and counteract any adverse effects
Murtagh and Thorn’s appearance on the Burning Plains may have had upon the resolution of their
warriors. And it may well increase the number of recruits Nasuada receives from the Empire.”

Eragon glanced at Naegling and said, “Surely, though, Master, you do not intend to venture into battle
yourselves.”

“And why should we not?” inquired Oromis, tilting his head to one side.

Since he did not want to offend Oromis or Glaedr, Eragon was uncertain how to respond. At last he
said, “Forgive me, Master, but how can you fight when you cannot cast spells that require more than a
small amount of energy? And what of the spasms you sometimes suffer? If one were to strike in the
middle of a battle, it could prove fatal.”

Oromis replied, “As you ought to know well by now, mere strength rarely decides the victor when two
magicians duel. Even so, I have all the strength I need here, in the jewel of my sword.” And he reached
across his body and placed the palm of his right hand on the yellow diamond that formed the pommel of
Naegling. “For over a hundred years, Glaedr and I have stored every iota of our excess strength in this
diamond, and others have added their strength to the pool as well; twice a week, several elves from
Ellesméra visit me here and transfer as much of their life force into the gem as they can without killing
themselves. The amount of energy contained within this stone is formidable, Eragon; with it, I could shift
an entire mountain. It is a small matter, then, to defend Glaedr and myself from swords and spears and
arrows, or even from a boulder cast by a siege engine. As for my seizures, I have attached certain wards
to the stone in Naegling that will protect me from harm if I become incapacitated upon the battlefield. So
you see, Eragon, Glaedr and I are far from helpless.”

Chastened, Eragon dipped his head and murmured, “Yes, Master.”

Oromis’s expression softened somewhat. “I appreciate your concern, Eragon, and you are right to be
concerned, for war is a perilous endeavor and even the most accomplished warrior may find death
waiting for him amid the heated frenzy of battle. However, our cause is a worthy one. If Glaedr and I go


to our deaths, then we go willingly, for by our sacrifice, we may help to free Alagaësia from the shadow
of Galbatorix’s tyranny.”

“But if you die,” said Eragon, feeling very small, “and yet we still succeed in killing Galbatorix and freeing
the last dragon egg, who will train that dragon and his Rider?”

Oromis surprised Eragon by reaching out and clasping him by the shoulder. “If that should come to
pass,” said the elf, his face grave, “then it shall be your responsibility, Eragon, and yours, Saphira, to
instruct the new dragon and Rider in the ways of our order. Ah, do not look so apprehensive, Eragon.
You would not be alone in the task. No doubt Islanzadí and Nasuada would ensure that the wisest
scholars of both our races would be there to help you.”

A strange sense of unease troubled Eragon. He had often longed to be treated as more of an adult, but
nevertheless, he did not feel ready to take Oromis’s place. It seemed wrong to even contemplate the
notion. For the first time, Eragon understood that he would eventually become part of the older
generation, and that when he did, he would have no mentor to rely upon for guidance. His throat
tightened.

Releasing Eragon’s shoulder, Oromis gestured at Brisingr, which lay in Eragon’s arms, and said, “The
entire forest shuddered when you woke the Menoa tree, Saphira, and half the elves in Ellesméra
contacted Glaedr and me with frantic pleas for us to rush to her aid. Moreover, we had to intervene on
your behalf with Gilderien the Wise, so as to prevent him from punishing you for employing such violent
methods.”

I shall not apologize,said Saphira.We had not the time to wait for gentle persuasion to work .

Oromis nodded. “I understand, and I am not criticizing you, Saphira. I only wanted you to be aware of
the consequences of your actions.” At his request, Eragon handed his newly forged sword to Oromis and
held his helm for him while the elf examined the sword. “Rhunön has outdone herself,” Oromis declared.
“Few weapons, swords or otherwise, are the equal of this. You are fortunate to wield such an impressive
blade, Eragon.” One of Oromis’s sharp eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch as he read the glyph on the
blade. “Brisingr . . . a most apt name for the sword of a Dragon Rider.”

“Aye,” said Eragon. “But for some reason, every time I utter its name, the blade bursts into . . . ,” he
hesitated, and instead of sayingfire —which, of course, wasbrisingr in the ancient language—he said,
“flames.”

Oromis’s eyebrow climbed even higher. “Indeed? Did Rhunön have an explanation for this unique
phenomenon?” As he spoke, Oromis returned Brisingr to Eragon in exchange for his helm.

“Yes, Master,” said Eragon. And he recounted Rhunön’s two theories.

When he had finished, Oromis murmured, “I wonder . . . ,” and his gaze drifted past Eragon toward the
horizon. Then Oromis gave a brief shake of his head and again focused his gray eyes upon Eragon and
Saphira. His face became even more solemn than before. “I am afraid I have let my pride speak for me.
Glaedr and I may not be helpless, but neither, as you pointed out, Eragon, are we entirely whole. Glaedr
has his wound, and I have my own . . . impairments. It is not for nothing I am called the Cripple Who Is
Whole.

“Our disabilities would not be a problem if our only enemies were mortal men. Even in our current state,
we could easily slay a hundred ordinary humans—a hundred or a thousand, it would matter little which.


However, our enemy is the most dangerous foe we or this land has ever faced. As much as I dislike
acknowledging it, Glaedr and I are at a disadvantage, and it is quite possible that we shall not survive the
battles yet to come. We have lived long and full lives, and the sorrows of centuries press upon us, but the
two of you are young and fresh and full of hope, and I believe your prospects of defeating Galbatorix are
greater than those of anyone else.”

Oromis glanced at Glaedr, and the elf’s face became troubled. “Therefore, in order to help ensure your
survival, and as a precaution against our possible demise, Glaedr has, with my blessing, decided to . . .”

I have decided,said Glaedr,to give you my heart of hearts, Saphira Brightscales, Eragon
Shadeslayer .

Saphira’s astonishment was no less than Eragon’s. Together, they stared at the majestic gold dragon
who towered high above them. Saphira said,Master, you honor us beyond words, but . . . are you
sure that you wish to entrust your heart to us?

I am sure,said Glaedr, and lowered his massive head until it was only slightly above Eragon.For many
reasons, I am sure. If you hold my heart, you shall be able to communicate with Oromis and
me—no matter how far apart we may be—and I shall be able to aid you with my strength
whenever you are in difficulty. And if Oromis and I should fall in battle, our knowledge and
experience, and also my strength, shall still be at your disposal. Long have I pondered this choice,
and I am confident it is the right one .

“But if Oromis were to die,” said Eragon in a soft voice, “would you really want to live on without him,
and as an Eldunarí?”

Glaedr turned his head and focused one of his immense eyes upon Eragon.I do not wish to be parted
from Oromis, but whatever happens, I shall continue to do what I can to topple Galbatorix from
his throne. That is our only goal, and not even death shall deter us from pursuing it. The idea of
losing Saphira horrifies you, Eragon, and rightly so. However, Oromis and I have had centuries to
reconcile ourselves with the fact that such a parting is inevitable. No matter how careful we are,
if we live long enough, eventually one of us will die. It is not a happy thought, but it is the truth.
Such is the way of the world.

Shifting his stance, Oromis said, “I cannot pretend that I regard this with favor, but the purpose of life is
not to do what we want but what needs to be done. This is what fate demands of us.”

So now I ask you,said Glaedr,Saphira Brightscales and Eragon Shadeslayer, will you accept my
gift and all that it entails?

I will,said Saphira.

I will,replied Eragon after a brief hesitation.

Then Glaedr drew back his head. The muscles of his abdomen rippled and clenched several times, and
his throat began to convulse, as if something were stuck in it. Widening his stance, the gold dragon
extended his neck straight out in front of him, every cord and sinew of his body standing in high relief
underneath the armor of his sparkling scales. Glaedr’s throat continued to flex and relax with increasing
speed until at last he lowered his head so that it was level with Eragon and opened his jaws, hot, pungent
air pouring from his massive maw. Eragon squinted and tried not to gag. As he gazed into the depths of
Glaedr’s mouth, Eragon saw the dragon’s throat contract one last time, and then a hint of gold light


appeared between the folds of dripping, blood-red tissue. A second later, a round object about a foot in
diameter slid down Glaedr’s crimson tongue and out of his mouth so fast, Eragon nearly missed catching
it.

As his hands closed around the slippery, saliva-covered Eldunarí, Eragon gasped and staggered
backward, for he suddenly felt Glaedr’s every thought and emotion, and all of the sensations of his body.
The amount of information was overwhelming, as was the closeness of their contact. Eragon had
expected as much, but it still shocked him to realize he was holding Glaedr’s entire being between his
hands.

Glaedr flinched, shaking his head as if he had been stung, and quickly shielded his mind from Eragon,
although Eragon could still sense the flicker of his shifting thoughts, as well as the general color of his
emotions.

The Eldunarí itself was like a giant gold jewel. Its surface was warm and covered with hundreds of sharp
facets, which varied somewhat in size and sometimes projected at odd, slanting angles. The center of the
Eldunarí glowed with a dull radiance, similar to that of a shuttered lantern, and the diffuse light throbbed
with a slow, steady beat. Upon first inspection, the light appeared uniform, but the longer Eragon gazed
at it, the more details he saw within it: small eddies and currents that coiled and twisted in seemingly
random directions, darker motes that barely moved at all, and flurries of bright flashes no larger than the
head of a pin that would flare for a moment, then fade back into the underlying field of light. It was alive.

“Here,” said Oromis, and handed Eragon a sturdy cloth sack.

To Eragon’s relief, his connection with Glaedr vanished as soon as he placed the Eldunarí in the bag and
his hands were no longer touching the gemlike stone. Still somewhat shaken, Eragon clasped the
cloth-covered Eldunarí against his chest, awed by the knowledge that his arms were wrapped around
Glaedr’s essence and afraid of what might happen to it if he allowed the heart of hearts out of his grasp.

“Thank you, Master,” Eragon managed to say, bowing his head toward Glaedr.

We shall guard your heart with our lives,Saphira added.

“No!” exclaimed Oromis, his voice fierce. “Not with your lives! That is the very thing we wish to avoid.
Do not allow any misfortune to befall Glaedr’s heart because of carelessness on your part, but neither
should you sacrifice yourself to protect him or me or anyone else. You have to stay alive at all costs, else
our hopes shall be dashed and all will be darkness.”

“Yes, Master,” Eragon and Saphira said at the same time, he with his tongue and she with her thoughts.

Said Glaedr,Because you swore fealty to Nasuada, and you owe her your loyalty and obedience,
you may tell her of my heart if you must, but only if you must. For the sake of dragons
everywhere, what few of us remain, the truth about the Eldunarí cannot become common
knowledge.

May we tell Arya? asked Saphira.

“And what about Blödhgarm and the other elves Islanzadí sent to protect me?” asked Eragon. “I
allowed them into my mind when Saphira and I last fought Murtagh. They will notice your presence,
Glaedr, if you help us in the midst of a battle.”


You may inform Blödhgarm and his spellcasters of the Eldunarí,said Glaedr,but only after they
have sworn oaths of secrecy to you.

Oromis placed his helm on his head. “Arya is Islanzadí’s daughter, and so I suppose it is proper she
should know. However, as with Nasuada, do not tell her unless it becomes absolutely necessary. A
secret shared is no secret at all. If you can be so disciplined, do not even think of it, nor of the very fact
of the Eldunarí, so that no one may steal the information from your minds.”

“Yes, Master.”

“Now let us be gone from here,” said Oromis, and drew a pair of thick gauntlets over his hands. “I have
heard from Islanzadí that Nasuada has laid siege to the city of Feinster, and the Varden have great need
of you.”

We have spent too long in Ellesméra,said Saphira.

Perhaps,said Glaedr,but it was time well spent .

Taking a short running start, Oromis bounded up Glaedr’s single foreleg and onto his high, jagged back,
where Oromis settled into his saddle and began to tighten the straps around his legs. “As we fly,” said the
elf, calling down to Eragon, “we can review the lists of true names you learned during your last visit.”

Eragon went to Saphira and carefully climbed onto her back, wrapped one of his blankets around
Glaedr’s heart, and packed the bundle in his saddlebags. Then he secured his legs in the same manner as
had Oromis. Behind him, he could feel a constant thrum of energy radiating from the Eldunarí.

Glaedr walked to the edge of the Crags of Tel’naeír and unfurled his voluminous wings. The earth shook
as the gold dragon leaped toward the cloud-streaked sky, and the air boomed and shuddered as Glaedr
drove his wings downward, pulling away from the ocean of trees below. Eragon gripped the spike in
front of him as Saphira followed, flinging herself out into open space and falling several hundred feet in a
steep dive before she ascended to Glaedr’s side.

Glaedr assumed the lead as the two dragons oriented themselves toward the southwest. Each of them
flapping at a different tempo, Saphira and Glaedr sped over the rolling forest.

Saphira arched her neck and uttered a ringing roar. Ahead, Glaedr responded likewise. Their fierce cries
echoed across the vast dome of the sky, frightening the birds and beasts below.

FLIGHT

From Ellesméra, Saphira and Glaedr flew without stopping over the ancient forest of the elves, soaring
high above the tall, dark pine trees. Sometimes the forest would break, and Eragon would see a lake or a
contorted river winding across the land. Often there was a herd of small roe deer gathered along the edge
of the water, and the animals would stop and lift their heads to watch the dragons soar past. For the most
part, however, Eragon paid little attention to the scenery because he was busy reciting within his mind
every word of the ancient language Oromis had taught him, and if he forgot any or made a mistake in


pronunciation, Oromis would have him repeat the word until he had memorized it.

They arrived at the edge of Du Weldenvarden by late afternoon of the first day. There, above the
shadowed boundary between the trees and the fields of grass beyond, Glaedr and Saphira circled one
another, and Glaedr said,Keep safe your heart, Saphira, and mine as well .

I will, Master,Saphira replied.

And Oromis shouted from Glaedr’s back, “Fair winds to you both, Eragon, Saphira! When next we
meet, let it be before the gates of Urû’baen.”

“Fair winds to you as well!” Eragon called in return.

Then Glaedr turned and followed the line of the forest westward—which would lead him to the
northernmost tip of Isenstar Lake, and the lake thence to Gil’ead—while Saphira continued in the same
southwesterly direction as before.

Saphira flew all through that night, landing only to drink and so Eragon could stretch his legs and relieve
himself. Unlike during their flight to Ellesméra, they encountered no headwinds; the air remained clear and
smooth, as if even nature were eager for them to return to the Varden. When the sun rose on their
second day, it found them already deep within the Hadarac Desert and heading straight south, so as to
skirt the eastern border of the Empire. And by the time darkness had again engulfed the land and sky and
held them in its cold embrace, Saphira and Eragon were beyond the confines of the sandy wastes and
were again soaring over the verdant fields of the Empire, their course such that they would pass between
Urû’baen and Lake Tüdosten on their way to the city of Feinster.

After flying for two days and two nights without sleep, Saphira was unable to continue. Swooping down
to a small thicket of white birch trees by a pond, she curled up in their shade and napped for a few hours
while Eragon kept watch and practiced his swordsmanship with Brisingr.

Ever since they had parted with Oromis and Glaedr, a sense of constant anxiety had troubled Eragon as
he pondered what awaited him and Saphira at Feinster. He knew that they were better protected than
most from death and injury, but when he thought back to the Burning Plains, and to the Battle of Farthen
Dûr, and when he remembered the sight of blood spurting from severed limbs and the screams of
wounded men and the white-hot lash of a sword slicing through his own flesh, then Eragon’s gut would
roil and his muscles would shake with suppressed energy, and he did not know whether he wished to
fight every soldier in the land or flee in the opposite direction and hide in a deep, dark hole.

His dread only worsened when he and Saphira resumed their journey and spotted lines of armed men
marching over the fields below. Here and there, pillars of pale smoke rose from sacked villages. The sight
of so much wanton destruction sickened him. Averting his gaze, he squeezed the neck spike in front of
him and squinted until the only thing visible through the bars of his blurry eyelashes was the white calluses
on his knuckles.

Little one,said Saphira, her thoughts slow and tired.We have done this before. Do not allow it to
disturb you so .

Regretting that he had distracted her from flying, he said,I’m sorry. . . . I’ll be fine when we get there.
I just want it to be over .

I know.


Eragon sniffed and wiped his cold nose on the cuff of his tunic.Sometimes I wish I enjoyed fighting as
much as you do. Then this would be so much easier .

If you did,she said,the entire world would cower before our feet, including Galbatorix. No, it is
good you do not share my love of blood. We balance each other out, Eragon. . . . Apart we are
incomplete, but together we are whole. Now clear your mind of these poisonous thoughts and tell
me a riddle that will keep me awake.

Very well,he said after a moment.I am colored red and blue and yellow and every other hue of the
rainbow. I am long and short, thick and thin, and I often rest coiled up. I can eat a hundred sheep
in a row and still be hungry. What am I?

A dragon, of course,she said without hesitation.

No, a woolen rug.

Bah!

Their third day of traveling crept past with agonizing slowness. The only sounds were those of Saphira’s
wings flapping, the steady rasp of her panting, and the dull roar of air rushing past Eragon’s ears. His legs
and lower back ached from sitting in the saddle for so long, but his discomfort was slight compared with
Saphira’s; her flight muscles burned with an almost unbearable amount of pain. Still, she persevered and
did not complain, and she refused his offer to alleviate her suffering with a spell, saying,You will need the
strength when we arrive .

Hours after dusk, Saphira wobbled and dropped several feet in a single, sickening lurch. Eragon
straightened, alarmed, and looked around for any clues as to what had caused the disturbance but saw
only blackness below and the glittering stars above.

I think we just reached the Jiet River,said Saphira.The air here is cool and moist, as it would be
over water.

Then Feinster shouldn’t be much farther ahead. Are you sure you can find the city in the dark?
We could be a hundred miles north or south of it!

No, we could not. My sense of direction may not be infallible, but it is certainly better than yours
or that of any other earthbound creature. If the elf maps we have seen were accurate, then we
cannot be off by more than fifty miles north or south of Feinster, and at this height, we can easily
see the city over that distance. We may even be able to smell the smoke from their chimneys.

And so it was. Later that night, when dawn was only a few hours away, a dull red glow appeared upon
the western horizon. Seeing it, Eragon twisted around and removed his armor from the saddlebags, then
donned his mail hauberk, his arming cap, his helm, his bracers, and his greaves. He wished he had his
shield, but he had left it with the Varden before running to Mount Thardûr with Nar Garzhvog.

Then Eragon rummaged with one hand through the contents of his bags until he found the silver flask of
faelnirv Oromis had given him. The metal container was cool to the touch. Eragon drank a small sip of the
enchanted liqueur, which seared the inside of his mouth and which tasted of elderberries and mead and
mulled cider. Heat suffused his face. Within seconds, his weariness began to recede as the restorative


properties of the faelnirv took effect.

Eragon shook the flask. To his concern, it felt as if a third of the precious liqueur was already gone, even
though he had only consumed a single mouthful once before.I have to be more careful with it in the
future, he thought.

As he and Saphira drew closer, the glow on the horizon resolved into thousands of individual points of
light, from small handheld lanterns to cookfires to bonfires to huge patches of burning pitch that poured a
foul black smoke into the night sky. By the ruddy light of the fires, Eragon saw a sea of flashing
spearpoints and gleaming helmets surging against the base of the large, well-fortified city, the walls of
which teemed with tiny figures busy firing arrows at the army below, pouring cauldrons of boiling oil
between the merlons of the parapet, cutting ropes thrown over the walls, and pushing away the rickety
wooden ladders the besiegers kept leaning against the ramparts. Faint calls and cries floated upward
from the ground, as well as the boom of a battering ram crashing against the city’s iron gates.

The last of Eragon’s weariness vanished as he studied the battlefield and noted the placement of the men
and the buildings and the various pieces of war machinery. Extending outward from the walls of Feinster
were hundreds of ramshackle hovels crammed one against another, with hardly enough room for a horse
to pass between: the dwellings of those too poor to afford a house within the main part of the city. Most
of the hovels appeared deserted, and a wide swath had been demolished so that the Varden could
approach the city walls in force. A score or more of the mean huts were burning, and even as he
watched, the fires spread, leaping from one thatched roof to another. East of the hovels, curved black
lines scored the earth where trenches had been excavated to protect the Varden’s camp. On the other
side of the city were docks and wharves similar to those Eragon remembered from Teirm, and then the
dark and restless ocean that seemed to extend to infinity.

A thrill of feral excitement ran through Eragon, and he felt Saphira shiver underneath him at the same
time. He gripped the hilt of Brisingr.They don’t seem to have noticed us yet. Shall we announce our
arrival?

Saphira answered him by loosing a roar that made his teeth rattle and by painting the sky in front of them
with a thick sheet of blue fire.

Below, the Varden at the foot of the city and the defenders upon the ramparts paused, and for a
moment, silence enveloped the battlefield. Then the Varden began to cheer and bang their spears and
swords against their shields while great groans of despair wafted from the people of the city.

Ah!exclaimed Eragon, blinking.I wish you hadn’t done that. Now I can’t see anything .

Sorry.

Still blinking, he said,The first thing we should do is find a horse that just died, or some other
animal, so that I can replenish your strength with theirs .

You don’t have—

Saphira stopped talking as another mind touched theirs. After a half second of panic, Eragon recognized
the consciousness as that of Trianna.Eragon, Saphira! cried the sorceress.You’re just in time! Arya
and another elf scaled the walls, but they were trapped by a large group of soldiers. They won’t
survive another minute unless someone helps them! Hurry!


BRISINGR!

Saphira tucked her wings close to her body and tipped into a steep dive, hurtling toward the dark
buildings of the city. Eragon ducked his head against the blast of wind that tore at his face. The world
spun around them as Saphira rolled to her right so that the archers on the ground would have difficulty
shooting her.

Eragon’s limbs grew heavy as Saphira pulled out of the dive. Then she leveled out and the weight
pressing down on him vanished. Like strange, shrieking hawks, arrows whistled past them, some missing
their mark, while Eragon’s wards deflected the rest.

Swooping low over the outer city walls, Saphira roared again and lashed out with her claws and tail,
knocking groups of screaming men off the parapet and toward the hard ground eighty feet below.

A tall, square tower armed with four ballistae stood at the far end of the southern wall. The huge
crossbows fired twelve-foot-long javelins toward the Varden massed before the city gates. Inside the
curtain wall, Eragon and Saphira spotted a hundred or so soldiers gathered around a pair of warriors,
who stood with their backs pressed against the base of the tower, desperately trying to fend off a thicket
of thrusting blades.

Even in the gloom and from high above, Eragon recognized one of the warriors as Arya.

Saphira leaped down from the parapet and landed in the midst of the soldiers, crushing several men
beneath her feet. The rest scattered, screaming with fear and surprise. Saphira roared, frustrated that her
prey was escaping, and whipped her tail across the dirt, flattening a dozen more soldiers. A man tried to
run past her. Fast as a striking snake, she caught him between her jaws and shook her head, snapping his
spine. She disposed of another four in a similar manner.

By then the remaining men had vanished among the buildings.

Eragon quickly pulled loose his leg straps, then jumped to the ground. The additional weight of his armor
drove him to one knee as he landed. He grunted and pushed himself up onto his feet.

“Eragon!” cried Arya, running up to him. She was panting and drenched with sweat. Her only armor was
a padded jerkin and a light helm painted black so it would not cast unwanted reflections.

“Welcome, Bjartskular. Welcome, Shadeslayer,” purred Blödhgarm from by her side, his short fangs
orange and glistening in the torchlight, his yellow eyes glowing. The ruff of fur on the elf’s back and neck
stood on end, which made him appear even fiercer than usual. Both he and Arya were stained with
blood, although Eragon could not tell if the blood was theirs.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

Arya shook her head, and Blödhgarm said, “A few scratches, but nothing serious.”

What are you doing here without reinforcements?asked Saphira.


“The gates,” said Arya, gasping. “For three days, we’ve tried to break them, but they’re impervious to
magic, and the battering ram has barely dented the wood. So I convinced Nasuada to . . .”

When Arya paused to regain her breath, Blödhgarm picked up the thread of her narrative. “Arya
convinced Nasuada to stage tonight’s attack so that we could sneak into Feinster without being noticed
and open the gates from within. Unfortunately, we encountered a trio of spellcasters. They engaged us
with their minds and prevented us from using magic while they summoned soldiers to overwhelm us with
sheer numbers.”

While Blödhgarm spoke, Eragon placed a hand on the chest of one of the dead soldiers and transferred
what energy remained in the man’s flesh into his own body, and thence to Saphira. “Where are the
spellcasters now?” he asked, proceeding to another corpse.

Blödhgarm’s fur-covered shoulders rose and fell. “They seem to have taken fright at your appearance,
Shur’tugal.”

As well they should,growled Saphira.

Eragon drained the energy from three more soldiers, and from the last, he also took the man’s round
wooden shield. “Well then,” he said, standing, “let us go open the gates for the Varden, shall we?”

“Yes, and without delay,” said Arya. She started forward, then cast a sideways glance at Eragon. “You
have a new sword.” It was not a question.

He nodded. “Rhunön helped me to forge it.”

“And what is the name of your weapon, Shadeslayer?” asked Blödhgarm.

Eragon was about to answer when four soldiers ran out from the mouth of a dark alleyway, spears
lowered. In a single, smooth motion, he drew Brisingr from its sheath and slashed through the haft of the
lead man’s spear and, continuing with the blow, decapitated the soldier. Brisingr seemed to shimmer with
savage delight. Arya lunged forward and stabbed two of the other men before they could react while
Blödhgarm leaped sideways and tackled the last soldier, killing him with his own dagger.

“Hurry!” cried Arya, and started to run toward the city gates.

Eragon and Blödhgarm raced after her while Saphira followed close behind, her claws loud against the
paving stones of the street. Archers fired arrows at them from the parapet above, and three different
times, soldiers rushed out from the main bulk of the city and flung themselves against them. Without
slowing, Eragon, Arya, and Blödhgarm cut down the attackers, or else Saphira blasted them with a
withering torrent of fire.

The steady boom of the battering ram became ever louder as they approached the forty-foot-tall gates
of the city. Eragon saw two men and a woman, who were garbed in dark robes, standing before the iron
bound doors, chanting in the ancient language and swaying from side to side with upheld arms. The three
spellcasters fell silent when they noticed Eragon and his companions and, with their robes flapping, ran up
the main street of Feinster, which led to the keep at the far side of the city.

Eragon longed to pursue them. However, it was more important to let the Varden into the city, where
they would no longer be at the mercy of the men on the walls.I wonder what mischief they have


planned, he thought, worried as he watched the spellcasters depart.

Before Eragon, Arya, Blödhgarm, and Saphira arrived at the gates, fifty soldiers in gleaming armor
streamed out of the guard towers and positioned themselves in front of the huge wooden doors.

One of the soldiers pounded the hilt of his sword against his shield and shouted, “Never shall you pass,
foul demons! This is our home, and we shall not allow Urgals and elves and other inhuman monsters to
enter! Begone, for you shall find nothing but blood and sorrow in Feinster!”

Arya pointed at the guard towers and murmured to Eragon, “The gears for opening the gates are hidden
within there.”

“Go,” he said. “You and Blödhgarm sneak around the men and slip into the towers. Saphira and I will
keep them occupied in the meantime.”

Arya nodded, then she and Blödhgarm disappeared into the pools of inky shadows that surrounded the
houses behind Eragon and Saphira.

Through his bond with her, Eragon sensed that Saphira was gathering herself to pounce upon the group
of soldiers. He put a hand on one of her forelegs.Wait, he said.Let me try something first .

If it doesn’t work,thenmay I tear them to shreds? she asked, licking her fangs.

Yes, then you may do what you wish with them.

Eragon slowly walked toward the soldiers, holding his sword and shield out to either side. An arrow
shot toward him from above, only to stop dead in the air three feet from his chest and drop straight to the
ground. Eragon looked over the soldiers’ frightened faces, then raised his voice and said, “My name is
Eragon Shadeslayer! Perhaps you have heard of me, and perhaps not. In either case, know this: I am a
Dragon Rider, and I have sworn to help the Varden remove Galbatorix from his throne. Tell me, have
any of you sworn fealty in the ancient language to Galbatorix or the Empire? . . . Well, have you?”

The same man who had spoken before, who appeared to be the captain of the soldiers, said, “We
would not swear fealty to the king even if he held a sword to our necks! Our loyalty belongs to Lady
Lorana. She and her family have ruled us for four generations, and they’ve done a fine job of it too!” The
other soldiers muttered in agreement.

“Then join us!” cried Eragon. “Lay down your weapons, and I promise no harm shall come to you or
your families. You cannot hope to hold Feinster against the combined might of the Varden, Surda, the
dwarves, and the elves.”

“So you say,” shouted one of the soldiers. “But what if Murtagh and that red dragon of his should come
here again?”

Eragon hesitated, then said in a confident tone, “He is no match for me and the elves who fight with the
Varden. We have already driven him off once before.” To the left of the soldiers, Eragon saw Arya and
Blödhgarm sidle out from behind one of the stone staircases that led to the top of the walls and, with
silent footsteps, creep toward the leftmost guard tower.

The captain of the soldiers said, “We may not have pledged ourselves to the king, but Lady Lorana has.
What will you do to her, then? Kill her? Imprison her? No, we will not betray our trust and allow you to


pass, nor the monsters clawing at our walls. You and the Varden hold nothing but the promise of death
for those who have been forced to serve the Empire!

“Why couldn’t you have left well enough alone, eh, Dragon Rider? Why couldn’t you have kept your
head down so the rest of us could live in peace? But no, the lure of fame and glory and riches was too
great. You had to bring wrack and ruin to our homes so that you could satisfy your ambitions. Well, I
curse you, Dragon Rider! I curse you with all my heart! May you leave Alagaësia and never return!”

A chill crept over Eragon, for the man’s curse echoed that which the last Ra’zac had cast upon him in
Helgrind, and he remembered how Angela had foretold that very future for him. With an effort, he put
aside such thoughts and said, “I do not wish to kill you, but I will if I must. Lay down your weapons!”

Arya silently opened the door at the bottom of the leftmost guard tower and slipped inside. Stealthy as a
hunting wildcat, Blödhgarm crept behind the soldiers toward the other tower. If any of the men had
turned around, they would have seen him.

The captain of the soldiers spat on the ground by Eragon’s feet. “You don’t even look human yourself!
You’re a traitor to your race, you are!” And with that, the man raised his shield and hefted his sword and
slowly walked toward Eragon. “Shadeslayer,” growled the soldier. “Ha! I’d as soon believe my
brother’s twelve-year-old son had killed a Shade as a youth like you.”

Eragon waited until the captain was only a few feet away. Then he took a single step forward and
stabbed Brisingr through the center of the man’s embossed shield, through his arm underneath, and then
through the man’s chest and out his back. The man convulsed once and was still. As Eragon pulled his
blade free of the corpse, there was a discordant clamor from within the guard towers as gears and chains
began to turn and the massive beams that held closed the city gates began to withdraw.

“Lay down your weapons or die!” Eragon shouted.

Bellowing in unison, twenty soldiers ran at him, brandishing their swords. The others either dispersed and
fled toward the heart of the city or else took Eragon’s advice and placed their swords and spears and
their shields on the gray paving stones and knelt by the side of the street with their hands on their knees.

A fine mist of blood formed around Eragon as he cut his way through the soldiers, dancing from one to
the next faster than they could react. Saphira knocked two of the soldiers over, then set another two on
fire with a short burst of flame from her nostrils, cooking them in their armor. Eragon slid to a stop several
feet beyond the rearmost soldier and held his position, his sword arm outstretched from the blow he had
just dealt, and waited until he heard the man topple to the ground, first one half, and then the other.

Arya and Blödhgarm emerged from the guard towers just as the gates groaned and swung outward,
revealing the blunt and splintered end of the Varden’s massive battering ram. Above, the archers on the
parapet cried out in dismay and retreated toward more defensible positions. Dozens of hands appeared
around the edges of the gates and pulled them farther apart, and Eragon saw a mass of grim-faced
Varden, men and dwarves alike, crowded in the archway beyond.

“Shadeslayer!” they shouted, and also “Argetlam!” and “Welcome back! The hunting is good today!”

“These are my prisoners!” Eragon said, and pointed with Brisingr at the soldiers kneeling by the side of
the street. “Bind them and see that they are treated well. I gave my word that no harm would come to
them.”


Six warriors hurried to follow his order.
The Varden rushed forward, streaming into the city, their jangling armor and pounding boots creating a
continuous, rolling thunder. Eragon was pleased to see Roran and Horst and several other men from

Carvahall in the fourth rank of the warriors. He hailed them, and Roran raised his hammer in greeting and
ran toward him.
Eragon grasped Roran’s right forearm and pulled him into a rough hug. Drawing back, he noticed that

Roran seemed older and hollow-eyed compared with before.
“About time you got here,” Roran grunted. “We’ve been dying by the hundreds trying to take the walls.”
“Saphira and I came as fast as we could. How’s Katrina?”
“She’s fine.”
“Once this is over, you’ll have to tell me everything that’s happened to you since I left.”
Roran pressed his lips together and nodded. Then he pointed at Brisingr and said, “Where did you get

the sword?”
“From the elves.”
“What’s it called?”
“Bris—” Eragon started to say, but then the eleven other elves whom Islanzadí had assigned to protect

him and Saphira sprinted out of the column of men and surrounded the two of them. Arya and

Blödhgarm rejoined them as well, Arya wiping clean the slim blade of her sword.
Before Eragon could resume speaking, Jörmundur rode through the gates and hailed him, shouting,
“Shadeslayer! Well met indeed!”

Eragon greeted him in return and asked, “What should we do now?”
“Whatever you see fit,” Jörmundur replied, reining in his brown charger. “We have to fight our way up to
the keep. It doesn’t look as if Saphira would fit between most of the houses, so fly around and harry their
forces where you can. If you could break open the keep or capture Lady Lorana, it would be a great

help.”
“Where’s Nasuada?”
Jörmundur gestured over his shoulder. “At the rear of the army, coordinating our forces with King

Orrin.” Jörmundur glanced out over the influx of warriors, then looked back at Eragon and Roran.
“Stronghammer, your place is with your men, not gossiping with your cousin.” Then the lean, wiry
commander spurred his horse forward and rode up the gloomy street, shouting orders to the Varden.

As Roran and Arya started to follow, Eragon grabbed Roran by the shoulder and tapped Arya’s blade
with his own. “Wait,” he said.
“What!” both Arya and Roran demanded in exasperated tones.


Yes, what?Saphira asked.We should not be sitting and talking when there is sport to be had .
“My father,” Eragon exclaimed. “It’s not Morzan, it’s Brom!”
Roran blinked. “Brom?”
“Yes, Brom!”
Even Arya appeared surprised. “Are you sure, Eragon? How do you know?”
“Of course I’m sure! I’ll explain later, but I couldn’t wait to tell you the truth.”
Roran shook his head. “Brom. . . . I never would have guessed, but I suppose it makes sense. You must


be glad to be rid of Morzan’s name.”
“More than glad,” Eragon said, grinning.
Roran clapped him on the back, then said, “Watch yourself, eh?” and trotted after Horst and the other


villagers.
Arya moved away in the same direction, but before she went more than a few steps, Eragon called her
name and said, “The Cripple Who Is Whole has left Du Weldenvarden and joined Islanzadí at Gil’ead.”
Arya’s green eyes widened and her lips parted, as if she were about to ask a question. Before she could,

the column of inrushing warriors swept her deeper into the city.
Blödhgarm sidled closer to Eragon. “Shadeslayer, why did the Mourning Sage leave the forest?”
“He and his companion felt that the time had come to strike against the Empire and to reveal their

presence to Galbatorix.”
The elf’s fur rippled. “That is indeed momentous news.”
Eragon climbed back onto Saphira. To Blödhgarm and his other guards, he said, “Work your way up to

the keep. We’ll meet you there.”
Without waiting for the elf to answer, Saphira jumped onto the stairs leading to the top of the city walls.
The stone steps cracked under her weight as she climbed up to the wide parapet, from which she took
flight over the burning hovels outside Feinster, flapping quickly to gain altitude.
Arya will have to give us permission before we can tell anyone else about Oromis and Glaedr,said
Eragon, remembering the oath of secrecy he, Orik, and Saphira had sworn to Queen Islanzadí during

their first visit to Ellesméra.
I am sure she will once she hears our account,said Saphira.
Aye.

Eragon and Saphira flew from place to place within Feinster, landing wherever they spotted a large
clump of men or wherever members of the Varden appeared beleaguered. Unless someone immediately
attacked, Eragon attempted to convince each group of enemies to surrender. He failed as often as he
succeeded, but he felt better for having tried, for many of the men who thronged the streets were


ordinary citizens of Feinster, and not trained soldiers. To each, Eragon said, “The Empire is our foe, not
you. Do not take up arms against us and you shall have no cause to fear us.” The few times Eragon saw a
woman or child running through the dark city, he ordered them to hide in the nearest house, and without
exception, they obeyed.

Eragon examined the minds of every person around him and Saphira, searching for magicians who might
mean them harm, but he found no other spellcaster besides the three they had already seen, and the three
were careful to keep their thoughts hidden from him. It concerned him that they did not seem to have
rejoined the fight in any noticeable way.

Maybe they intend to abandon the city,he said to Saphira.

Would Galbatorix let them leave in the middle of a battle?

I doubt he wants to lose any of his spellcasters.

Maybe, but we should still tread with care. Who knows what they are planning?

Eragon shrugged.For now, the best thing we can do is help the Varden secure Feinster as quickly
as possible.

She agreed and angled toward a skirmish in a nearby square.

Fighting in a city was different from fighting in the open, as Eragon and Saphira were accustomed to. The
narrow streets and close-set buildings hampered Saphira’s movements and made it difficult to react when
soldiers attacked, even though Eragon could sense the men approaching long before they arrived. Their
encounters with the soldiers devolved into dark and desperate struggles, broken only by the occasional
burst of fire or magic. More than once, Saphira wrecked the front of a house with a careless sweep of
her tail. She and Eragon always managed to escape permanent injury—through a combination of luck,
skill, and Eragon’s wards—but the attacks made them even more cautious and tense than they normally
were in battle.

The fifth such confrontation left Eragon so enraged that when the soldiers began to withdraw, as they
always did in the end, he gave chase, determined to kill every last one. They surprised him by swerving
off the street and crashing through the barred door of a millinery shop.

Eragon followed, leaping over the cracked wreckage of the door. The inside of the shop was
pitch-black and smelled like chicken feathers and stale perfume. He could have lit the shop with magic,
but since he knew the soldiers were at a greater disadvantage than he was, he refrained. Eragon felt their
minds nearby, and he could hear their ragged breathing, but he was uncertain of what lay between him
and them. He inched deeper into the inky shop, feeling his way with his feet. He held his shield in front of
him and Brisingr over his head, ready to strike.

Faint as a line of thread falling to the floor, Eragon heard an object flying through the air.

He jerked backward and staggered as a mace or a hammer struck his shield, breaking it into pieces.
Shouts erupted. A man knocked over a chair or a table and something shattered against a wall. Eragon
lashed out and felt Brisingr sink into flesh and bury itself in bone. A weight dragged on the end of his
sword. Eragon yanked it free, and the man he had struck collapsed across his feet.

Eragon dared a glance back at Saphira, who was waiting for him in the narrow street outside. Only then


did Eragon see that there was a lantern mounted on an iron post beside the street and that the light it cast
rendered him visible to the soldiers. He quickly moved from the open doorway and threw away the
remnants of his shield.

Another crash echoed through the shop, and there was a confusion of footsteps as the soldiers rushed
out the back and up a flight of stairs. Eragon scrambled after them. The second story was the living
quarters of the family who owned the store below. Several people screamed and a baby began to wail as
Eragon bounded through a maze of small rooms, but he ignored them, intent as he was on his prey. At
last he cornered the soldiers in a cramped sitting room illuminated by a single flickering candle.

Eragon slew the four soldiers with four strokes of his sword, wincing as their blood splattered him. He
scavenged a new shield from one, then paused and studied the corpses. It seemed rude to leave them
lying in the middle of the sitting room, so he threw them out a nearby window.

On his way back to the stairs, a figure stepped around a corner and stabbed a dagger toward Eragon’s
ribs. The tip of the dagger stopped a fraction of an inch from Eragon’s side, halted by his wards. Startled,
Eragon swept Brisingr upward and was about to strike his attacker’s head from his shoulders when he
realized that the holder of the dagger was a thin boy of no more than thirteen.

Eragon froze.That could be me, he thought.I would have done the same if I were in his shoes .
Looking past the boy, he saw a man and a woman standing in their nightgowns and knit caps, clutching
each other and staring at him with horror.

A tremor ran through Eragon. He lowered Brisingr and, with his free hand, removed the dagger from the
boy’s now-soft grip. “If I were you,” Eragon said, and the loudness of his voice shocked him, “I would
not go outside until the battle is over.” He hesitated, then added, “I’m sorry.”

Feeling ashamed, he hurried from the shop and rejoined Saphira.

They continued along the street.

Not far from the millinery shop, Eragon and Saphira came across several of King Orrin’s men carrying
gold candlesticks, silver plates and utensils, jewelry, and an assortment of furnishings out of a
well-appointed mansion the men had broken into.

Eragon dashed a pile of rugs from the arms of one man. “Put these things back!” he shouted to the entire
group. “We’re here tohelp these people, not steal from them! They are our brothers and sisters, our
mothers and fathers. I’ll let you off this once, but spread the word that if you or anyone else goes looting,
I’ll have you strung up and whipped as the thieves you are!” Saphira growled, emphasizing his point.
Under their watchful gaze, the chastened warriors returned the spoils to the marble-clad mansion.

Now,Eragon said to Saphira,maybe we can —

“Shadeslayer! Shadeslayer!” shouted a man, running toward them from deeper within the city. His arms
and armor identified him as one of the Varden.

Eragon tightened his grip on Brisingr. “What?”

“We need your help, Shadeslayer. And yours too, Saphira!”

They followed the warrior through Feinster until they arrived at a large stone building. Several dozen


Varden sat hunched behind a low wall in front of the building. They appeared relieved to see Eragon and
Saphira.

“Stay back!” said one of the Varden, gesturing. “There’s a whole group of soldiers inside, and they have
bows aimed at us.”

Eragon and Saphira halted just out of sight of the building. The warrior who had brought them said, “We
can’t get at them. The doors and windows are blocked, and they shoot at us if we try to chop our way
in.”

Eragon looked at Saphira.Shall I, or shall you?

I’ll attend to it,she said, and jumped into the air with a rush of spreading wings.

The building shook, windows shattering, as Saphira landed on the roof. Eragon and the other warriors
watched with awe as she fit the tips of her claws into the mortared grooves between the stones and,
snarling from the effort, tore the building apart until she exposed the terrified soldiers, whom she killed
like a terrier kills rats.

When Saphira returned to Eragon’s side, the Varden edged away from her, clearly frightened by her
display of ferocity. She ignored them and began licking her paws, cleaning the gore from her scales.

Have I ever told you how glad I am we’re not enemies?Eragon asked.

No, but it’s very sweet of you.


Throughout the city, the soldiers fought with a tenacity that impressed Eragon; they gave ground only
when forced and made every attempt to slow the Varden’s advance. Because of their determined
resistance, the Varden did not arrive at the western side of the city, where the keep stood, until the first
faint light of dawn began to spread across the sky.

The keep was an imposing structure. It was tall and square and adorned with numerous towers of
differing height. The roof was made of slate, so attackers could not set it on fire. In front of the keep was
a large courtyard—in which were several low outbuildings and a row of four catapults—and encircling
the lot was a thick curtain wall interspersed with smaller towers of its own. Hundreds of soldiers manned
the battlements and hundreds more teemed within the courtyard. The only way to enter the courtyard on
the ground was through a wide, arched passageway in the curtain wall, which was closed off by both an
iron portcullis and a set of thick oaken doors.

Several thousand of the Varden stood pressed against the curtain wall, striving to break through the
portcullis with the battering ram they had brought from the main gate of the city or else to surmount the
walls with grappling hooks and ladders, which the defenders kept pushing away. Flocks of whining
arrows arched back and forth over the wall. Neither side seemed to have the advantage.

The gate!said Eragon, pointing.

Saphira swept down from on high and cleared the parapet above the portcullis with a jet of billowing
fire, smoke venting from her nostrils. She dropped onto the top of the wall, jarring Eragon, and said,Go.
I’ll see to the catapults before they start lobbing rocks at the Varden .


Be careful. He lowered himself to the parapet from her back.

It istheywho must be careful! she replied. She snarled at the pikemen gathering around the catapults.
Half of them turned and fled inside.

The wall was too high for Eragon to comfortably jump to the street below, so Saphira draped her tail
over the side and wedged it between two merlons. Eragon sheathed Brisingr, then climbed down, using
the spikes on her tail like rungs on a ladder. When he reached the tip, he released his hold and fell the
remaining twenty feet. He rolled to lessen the impact as he landed amid the press of Varden.

“Greetings, Shadeslayer,” said Blödhgarm, emerging from the crowd, along with the eleven other elves.

“Greetings.” Eragon drew Brisingr again. “Why haven’t you already opened the gate for the Varden?”

“The gate is protected by many spells, Shadeslayer. It would require much strength to break and shatter.
My companions and I are here to protect you and Saphira, and we cannot fulfill our duty if we exhaust
ourselves on other tasks.”

Biting back a curse, Eragon said, “Would you rather Saphira and I exhaust ourselves, Blödhgarm? Will
that make us safer?”

The elf stared at Eragon for a moment, his yellow eyes inscrutable, then he bowed his head slightly. “We
shall open the gate at once, Shadeslayer.”

“No, don’t,” growled Eragon. “Wait here.”

Eragon pushed his way to the front of the Varden and strode toward the lowered portcullis. “Give me
room!” he shouted, gesturing at the warriors. The Varden backed away from him, forming an open area
twenty feet across. A javelin shot from a ballista glanced off his wards and flew spinning down a side
street. Saphira roared from inside the courtyard, and there came the sounds of timbers breaking and of
taut rope snapping in twain.

Grasping his sword with both hands, Eragon lifted it overhead and shouted, “Brisingr!” The blade burst
into blue fire, and the warriors behind him uttered exclamations of amazement. Eragon stepped forward
then and smote one of the crossbars of the portcullis. A blinding flash lit the wall and surrounding
buildings as the sword sliced through the thick piece of metal. At the same time, Eragon noticed a sudden
increase in his fatigue as Brisingr severed the wards protecting the portcullis. He smiled. As he had
hoped, the spells of countermagic with which Rhunön had imbued Brisingr were more than sufficient to
defeat the enchantments.

Moving at a quick but steady pace, Eragon cut as large a hole as he could in the portcullis, then stood
aside as the loose piece of grating fell flat onto the stones of the street with a discordant clang. He
stepped past the grating and walked forward to the oaken doors recessed farther within the curtain wall.
He aligned Brisingr with the hairline crack between the two doors, put his weight behind the sword, and
pushed the blade through the narrow gap and out the other side. Then he increased the flow of energy to
the fire blazing around the blade until it was hot enough to burn its way through the dense wood as easily
as a knife cuts through fresh bread. Copious amounts of smoke billowed from around the blade, making
his throat sting and his eyes smart.

Eragon worked the sword upward, burning through the immense wooden beam that barred the doors


shut from the inside. As soon as he felt the resistance against Brisingr’s blade lessen, he withdrew the
sword and extinguished the flame. He wore thick gloves, so he did not shrink from grasping the glowing
edges of one door and pulling it open with a mighty heave. The other door also swung outward,
seemingly of its own accord, although a moment later, Eragon saw that it was Saphira who had pushed it
open; she sat to the right of the entryway, peering at him with sparkling sapphire eyes. Behind her, the
four catapults lay in ruins.

Eragon went to stand with Saphira as the Varden poured into the courtyard, filling the air with their
clamorous battle-cries. Exhausted by his efforts, Eragon placed a hand over the belt of Beloth the Wise
and bolstered his flagging strength with some of the energy he had stored within the twelve diamonds
hidden inside the belt. He offered the rest of it to Saphira, who was equally tired, but she declined,
saying,Keep it for yourself. You haven’t that much left. Besides, what I really need is a meal and a
full night’s sleep .

Eragon leaned against her and allowed his eyelids to drift halfway closed.Soon, he said.Soon this will
all be over .

I hope so,she replied.

Among the warriors who streamed past was Angela, garbed in her strange, flanged armor of green and
black and carrying her hûthvír, the double-bladed staff weapon of the dwarf priests. The herbalist paused
next to Eragon and, with an impish expression, said, “An impressive display, but don’t you think you’re
overdoing it a bit?”

“What do you mean?” asked Eragon, frowning.

She lifted an eyebrow. “Come now, was it really necessary to set your sword on fire?”

Eragon’s expression cleared as he understood her objection. He laughed. “Not for the portcullis, no, but
I enjoyed it. Besides, I can’t help it. I named the swordFire in the ancient language, and every time I say
the word, the blade flares up like a branch of dry wood in a bonfire.”

“You named your sword Fire?” Angela exclaimed with a note of incredulity. “Fire? What kind of a
boring name is that? You might as well name your sword Blazing Blade and be done with it. Fire indeed.
Humph. Wouldn’t you rather have a sword called Sheepbiter or Chrysanthemum Cleaver or something
else with imagination?”

“I already have one Sheepbiter here,” said Eragon, and laid a hand on Saphira. “Why would I need
another?”

Angela broke out into a wide smile. “So you’re not entirely devoid of wit after all! There just might be
hope for you.” And she danced off toward the keep, twirling her double-bladed staff by her side and
muttering, “Fire? Bah!”

A soft growl emanated from Saphira, and she said,Be careful whom you call Sheepbiter, Eragon, or
you might get bitten yourself .

Yes, Saphira.


SHADOW OFDOOM

By then, Blödhgarm and his fellow elves had joined Eragon and Saphira in the courtyard, but Eragon
ignored them and looked for Arya. When he spotted her, running alongside Jörmundur on his charger,
Eragon hailed her and brandished his shield to attract her attention.

Arya heeded his call and loped over, her stride as graceful as a gazelle’s. She had acquired a shield, a
full-sized helm, and a mail hauberk since they had parted, and the metal of her armor gleamed in the gray
half-light that pervaded the city. As she drew to a stop, Eragon said, “Saphira and I are going to enter the
keep from above and try to capture Lady Lorana. Do you want to come with us?”

Arya agreed with a terse nod.

Springing from the ground onto one of Saphira’s front legs, Eragon climbed into her saddle. Arya
followed his example an instant later and sat close behind him, the links of her hauberk pressing against
his back.

Saphira unfurled her velvety wings and took flight, leaving Blödhgarm and the other elves gazing up at
her with looks of frustration.

“You should not abandon your guards so lightly,” Arya murmured in Eragon’s left ear. She wrapped her
sword arm around his waist and held him tightly as Saphira wheeled above the courtyard.

Before Eragon could respond, he felt the touch of Glaedr’s vast mind. For a moment, the city below
vanished, and he saw and felt only what Glaedr saw and felt.

Little-stinging-hornet-arrows bounced off his belly as he rose above the scattered wood-caves of
the two-legs-round-ears. The air was smooth and firm beneath his wings, perfect for the flying he
would need to do. On his back, the saddle rubbed against his scales as Oromis altered his position.

Glaedr flicked his tongue out and tasted the enticing aroma of
burnt-wood-cooked-meat-spilled-blood. He had been to this place many times before. In his youth,
it had been known by a different name than Gil’ead, and then the only inhabitants had been the
somber-laughing-quick-tongued-elves and the friends of elves. His previous visits had always been
pleasant, but it pained him to remember the two nest-mates who had died here, slain by the
twisted-mind-Forsworn.

The lazy-one-eye-sun hovered just above the horizon. To the north, the big-water-Isenstar was a
rippling sheet of polished silver. Below, the herd of pointed-ears commanded by Islanzadí was
arrayed around the broken-anthill-city. Their armor glittered like crushed ice. A pall of blue
smoke lay over the whole area, thick as cold morning mist.

And from the south, the small-angry-rip-claw-Thorn winged his way toward Gil’ead, bellowing
his challenge for all to hear. Morzan-son-Murtagh sat upon his back, and in Murtagh’s right hand,
Zar’roc shone as bright as a nail.

Sorrow filled Glaedr as he beheld the two miserable hatchlings. He wished he and Oromis did not
have to kill them. Once more,he thought, dragon must fight dragon and Rider must fight Rider, and all


because of that egg-breaker-Galbatorix.His mood grim, Glaedr quickened his flapping and spread
his claws in preparation for tearing at his oncoming foes.

Eragon’s head whipped on his neck as Saphira lurched to one side and dropped a score of feet before
she regained her equilibrium.Did you see that as well? she asked.

I did. Worried, Eragon glanced back at the saddlebags, where Glaedr’s heart of hearts was hidden, and
wondered if he and Saphira should try to help Oromis and Glaedr but then reassured himself with the
knowledge that there were numerous spellcasters among the elves. His teachers would not want for
assistance.

“What is wrong?” asked Arya, her voice loud in Eragon’s ear.

Oromis and Glaedr are about to fight Thorn and Murtagh,said Saphira.

Eragon felt Arya stiffen against him. “How do you know?” she asked.

“I’ll explain later. I just hope they don’t get hurt.”

“As do I,” said Arya.

Saphira flew high above the keep, then floated downward on silent wings and alighted upon the spire of
the tallest tower. As Eragon and Arya clambered onto the steep roof, Saphira said,I will meet you in
the chamber below. The window here is too small for me . And she took off, the gusts from her wings
buffeting them.

Eragon and Arya lowered themselves over the edge of the roof and dropped to a narrow stone ledge
eight feet below. Ignoring the vertigo-inducing fall that awaited him if he slipped, Eragon inched along the
ledge to a cross-shaped window, where he pulled himself into a large square room lined with sheaves of
quarrels and racks of heavy crossbows. If anyone had been in the room when Saphira landed, they had
already fled.

Arya climbed through the window after him. She inspected the room, then gestured at the stairs in the far
corner and padded toward them, her leather boots silent on the stone floor.

As Eragon followed her, he sensed a strange confluence of energies below them and also the minds of
five people whose thoughts were closed to him. Wary of a mental attack, Eragon withdrew into himself
and concentrated upon reciting a scrap of elvish poetry. He touched Arya on the shoulder and
whispered, “Do you feel that?”

She nodded. “We should have brought Blödhgarm with us.”

Together, they descended the stairs, making every effort to be quiet. The next room in the tower was
much larger than the last; the ceiling was over thirty feet high, and from it hung a lantern with faceted
panes of glass. A yellow flame burned inside. Hundreds of oil paintings covered the walls: portraits of
bearded men in ornate robes and expressionless women sitting amid children with sharp, flat teeth;
gloomy, windswept seascapes depicting the drowning of sailors; and scenes of battle, where humans
slaughtered bands of grotesque Urgals. A row of tall wooden shutters set within the northern wall opened
onto a balcony with a stone balustrade. Opposite the window, near the far wall, was a collection of small
round tables littered with scrolls, three padded chairs, and two oversized brass urns filled with bouquets


of dried flowers. A stout, gray-haired woman garbed in a lavender dress sat in one of the chairs. She
bore a strong resemblance to several of the men in the paintings. A silver diadem adorned with jade and
topaz rested upon her head.

In the center of the room stood the three magicians Eragon had glimpsed before in the city. The two men
and a woman were facing each other, the hoods of their robes thrown back and their arms extended out
to each side, so that the tips of their fingers touched. They swayed in unison, murmuring an unfamiliar
spell in the ancient language. A fourth person sat in the middle of the triangle they formed: a man garbed
in an identical fashion, but who said nothing, and who grimaced as if in pain.

Eragon threw himself at the mind of one of the male spellcasters, but the man was so focused on his
task, Eragon failed to gain entry to his consciousness and thus was unable to subordinate him to his will.
The man did not even seem to notice the attack. Arya must have attempted the same thing, for she
frowned and whispered, “They were trained well.”

“Do you know what they are doing?” he murmured.

She shook her head.

Then the woman in the lavender dress looked up and saw Eragon and Arya crouched upon the stone

stairs. To Eragon’s surprise, the woman did not call for help but rather placed a finger upon her lips, then
beckoned.

Eragon exchanged a perplexed glance with Arya. “It could be a trap,” he whispered.

“It most likely is,” she said.

“What should we do?”

“Is Saphira almost here?”

“Yes.”

“Then let us go and greet our host.”

Matching their steps, they padded down the remaining stairs and snuck across the room, never taking
their eyes off the engrossed magicians. “Are you Lady Lorana?” asked Arya in a soft voice as they halted
before the seated woman.

The woman inclined her head. “That I am, fair elf.” She turned her gaze upon Eragon then and said,
“And are you the Dragon Rider of whom we have heard so much about recently? Are you Eragon
Shadeslayer?”

“I am,” said Eragon.

A relieved expression appeared upon the woman’s distinguished face. “Ah, I had hoped you would

come. You must stop them, Shadeslayer.” And she gestured at the magicians.

“Why don’t you order them to surrender?” whispered Eragon.

“I cannot,” said Lorana. “They answer only to the king and his new Rider. I have sworn myself to


Galbatorix—I had no choice in the matter—so I cannot raise a hand against him or his servants;
otherwise, I would have arranged their destruction myself.”

“Why?” asked Arya. “What is it you fear so much?”

The skin around Lorana’s eyes tightened. “They know they cannot hope to drive off the Varden as they
are, and Galbatorix has not sent reinforcements to our aid. So they are attempting, I do not know how,
to create a Shade in the hope that the monster will turn against the Varden and spread sorrow and
confusion throughout your ranks.”

Horror enveloped Eragon. He could not imagine having to fight another Durza. “But a Shade might just
as easily turn against them and everyone else in Feinster as it would against the Varden.”

Lorana nodded. “They do not care. They only wish to cause as much pain and destruction as they can
before they die. They are insane, Shadeslayer. Please, you must stop them, for the sake of my people!”

As she finished speaking, Saphira landed upon the balcony outside the room, cracking the balustrade
with her tail. She knocked aside the shutters with a single blow of her paw, breaking their frames like so
much tinder, and then pushed her head and shoulders into the chamber and growled.

The magicians continued to chant, seemingly oblivious to her presence.

“Oh my,” said Lady Lorana, gripping the arms of her chair.

“Right,” said Eragon. He hefted Brisingr and started toward the magicians, as did Saphira from the
opposite direction.

The world reeled around Eragon, and again he found himself peering through Glaedr’s eyes.

Red. Black. Flashes of throbbing yellow. Pain . . . Bone-bending pain in his belly and in the
shoulder of his left wing. Pain as he had not felt for over a hundred years. Then relief as
partner-of-his-life-Oromis healed his injuries.

Glaedr regained his balance and looked for Thorn. The little-red-shrike-dragon was stronger and
faster than Glaedr had anticipated, due to Galbatorix’s meddling.

Thorn slammed into Glaedr’s left side, his weak side, where he had lost his foreleg. They spun
around each other, plummeting toward the hard-flat-wing-crushing-ground. Glaedr snapped and
tore and raked with his hind feet, trying to batter the smaller dragon into submission.

You will not bestme, youngling,he vowed to himself . I was old before you were born.

White-dagger-claws scratched Glaedr along his ribs and underside. He flexed his tail and struck
snarling-long-fang-Thorn across one leg, stabbing him in the thigh with a spike on his tail. The
fighting had long since exhausted both of their invisible-spell-shields, leaving them vulnerable to
every sort of wound.

When the twirling ground was only a few thousand feet away, Glaedr inhaled and drew back his
head. He tightened his neck, clenched his belly, and drew forth the dense-liquid-of-fire from deep
within his gut. The liquid ignited as it combined with the air in his throat. He opened his jaws to


their full extent and sprayed the red dragon with fire, engulfing him in a blistering cocoon. The
torrent of hungry-grasping-writhing-flames tickled the inside of Glaedr’s cheeks.

He closed off his throat, terminating the flow of fire as he and the
squirming-squealing-slash-claw-dragon pulled away from each other. From on his back, Glaedr
heard Oromis say, “Their strength is fading; I can see it in their bearing. Another few minutes and
Murtagh’s concentration shall fail and I will be able to assume control over his thoughts. That or
we shall slay them with sword and fang.”

Glaedr growled in agreement, frustrated that he and Oromis dared not communicate with their
minds, as they usually did. Rising on warm-wind-from-tilled-earth, he turned toward Thorn, whose
limbs dripped with crimson blood, and roared and prepared to grapple with him once more.

Eragon stared at the ceiling, disoriented. He was lying on his back within the keep tower. Kneeling next
to him was Arya, concern etched upon her face. She grasped him by an arm and helped him upright,
steadying him as he wobbled. Across the room, Eragon saw Saphira shake her head, and he felt her own
confusion.

The three magicians still stood with their arms outstretched, swaying and chanting in the ancient language.
The words of their spell rang with unusual force and lingered in the air long after they should have faded
to silence. The man who sat at their feet gripped his knees, his entire body shuddering as he thrashed his
head from side to side.

“What happened?” asked Arya in a strained undertone. She pulled Eragon closer and lowered her voice
even further. “How can you know what Glaedr is thinking from so far away, and when his mind is closed
even to Oromis? Forgive me for touching your thoughts without your permission, Eragon, but I was
worried about your welfare. What sort of a bond do you and Saphira share with Glaedr?”

“Later,” he said, and squared his shoulders.

“Did Oromis give you an amulet or some other trinket that allows you to contact Glaedr?”

“It would take too long to explain. Later, I promise.”

Arya hesitated, then nodded and said, “I shall hold you to that.”

Together, Eragon, Saphira, and Arya advanced toward the magicians and struck at a separate one each.
A metallic peal filled the room as Brisingr glanced aside before it reached its intended target, wrenching
Eragon’s shoulder. Likewise, Arya’s sword rebounded off a ward, as did Saphira’s right front paw. Her
claws screeched against the stone floor.

“Concentrate on this one!” Eragon shouted, and pointed at the tallest spellcaster, a pale man with a
snarled beard. “Hurry, before they manage to summon any spirits!” Eragon or Arya could have
attempted to circumvent or deplete the spellcasters’ wards with spells of their own, but using magic
against another magician was always a perilous proposition unless the magician’s mind was under your
control. Neither Eragon nor Arya wanted to risk being killed by a ward they were as yet ignorant of.

Attacking in turns, Eragon, Saphira, and Arya cut, stabbed, and battered at the bearded spellcaster for
nearly a minute. None of their blows touched the man. Then, at last, after only the slightest hint of
resistance, Eragon felt something give way beneath Brisingr, and the sword continued on its way and


lopped off the spellcaster’s head. The air in front of Eragon shimmered. At the same instant, he felt a
sudden drain on his strength as his wards defended him from an unknown spell. The assault ceased after
a few seconds, leaving him dizzy and light-headed. His stomach rumbled. He grimaced and fortified
himself with energy from the belt of Beloth the Wise.

The only response the other two magicians evinced at the death of their companion was to increase the
speed of their invocation. Yellow foam encrusted the corners of their mouths, and spittle flew from their
lips, and the whites of their eyes showed, but still they made no attempt to flee or to attack.

Continuing on to the next spellcaster—a corpulent man with rings on his thumbs—Eragon, Saphira, and
Arya repeated the process they had used on the first magician: alternating blows until they succeeded in
wearing down his wards. It was Saphira who slew the man, knocking him through the air with a swipe of
her claws. He hit the side of the staircase and cracked open his skull on the corner of a step. This time
there was no magical retaliation.

As Eragon moved toward the female spellcaster, a cluster of multicolored lights hurtled into the room
through the broken shutters and converged upon the man seated on the floor. The glowing spirits flashed
with angry virulence as they whirled around the man, forming an impenetrable wall. He threw up his arms
as if to shield himself and screamed. The air hummed and crackled with the energy that radiated from the
flickering orbs. A sour, ironlike taste coated Eragon’s tongue, and his skin prickled. The hair on the
female spellcaster’s head was standing on end. Across from her, Saphira hissed and arched her back,
every muscle in her body rigid.

A bolt of fear shot through Eragon.No! he thought, feeling sick.Not now. Not after all we’ve gone
through . He was stronger than he had been when he faced Durza in Tronjheim, but if anything, he was
even more aware of just how dangerous a Shade could be. Only three warriors had ever survived the
killing of a Shade: Laetrí the Elf, Irnstad the Rider, and himself—and he had no confidence he could
duplicate the feat.Blödhgarm, where are you? Eragon shouted with his mind.We need your help!

And then everything around Eragon winked out of existence, and in its place he beheld:

Whiteness. Blank whiteness. The cold-soft-sky-water was soothing against Glaedr’s limbs after
the stifling heat of combat. He lapped at the air, welcoming the thin coat of moisture that
accumulated on his dry-sticky-tongue.

He flapped once more and the sky-water parted before him, revealing the glaring-scorchback-sun
and the hazy-green-brown-earth. Where is he?Glaedr wondered. He swung his head, looking for
Thorn. The little-red-shrike-dragon had fled high above Gil’ead, higher than any bird normally
flew, where the air was thin and one’s breath water-smoked.

“Glaedr, behind us!” Oromis shouted.

Glaedr twisted, but he was too slow. The red dragon crashed into his right shoulder, knocking
him tumbling. Snarling, Glaedr wrapped his single remaining foreleg around the
nipping-scratching-ferocious-hatchling and strove to crush the life out of Thorn’s squirming body.
The red dragon bellowed and climbed halfway out of Glaedr’s embrace, digging his claws into
Glaedr’s chest. Glaedr arched his neck and sank his teeth into Thorn’s left hind leg and, with it,
held him in place, although the red dragon writhed and kicked like a pinned wildcat.
Hot-salty-blood filled Glaedr’s mouth.


As they plummeted downward, Glaedr heard the sound of swords striking shields as Oromis and
Murtagh exchanged a flurry of blows. Thorn convulsed, and Glaedr glimpsed
Morzan-son-Murtagh. Glaedr thought the human appeared frightened, but he was not entirely
sure. Even after so long bonded with Oromis, he still had difficulty deciphering the expressions of
two-legs-no-horns, what with their soft, flat faces and their lack of tails.

The clanging of metal ceased, and Murtagh shouted, “Curse you for not showing yourself sooner!
Curse you! You could have helped us! You could have—” Murtagh seemed to choke on his tongue
for a moment.

Glaedr grunted as an unseen force brought their fall to an abrupt halt, nearly shaking him loose
from Thorn’s leg, and then lifted the four of them up through the sky, higher and higher, until the
broken-anthill-city was only a faint blotch below and even Glaedr had difficulty breathing in the
rarefied air.

What is the youngling doing?Glaedr wondered, concerned. Is he trying to kill himself?

Then Murtagh resumed speaking, and when he did, his voice was richer and deeper than before,
and it echoed as if he were standing in an empty hall. Glaedr felt the scales on his shoulders crawl
as he recognized the voice of their ancient foe.

“So you survived, Oromis, Glaedr,” said Galbatorix. His words were round and smooth, like
those of a practiced orator, and their tone was deceptively friendly. “Long have I thought that the
elves might be hiding a dragon or a Rider from my sight. It is gratifying to have my suspicions
confirmed.”

“Begone, foul oath-breaker!” cried Oromis. “You shall not have any satisfaction from us!”

Galbatorix chuckled. “Such a harsh greeting. For shame, Oromis-elda. Have the elves forgotten
their fabled courtesy over the past century?”

“You deserve no more courtesy than a rabid wolf.”

“Tut-tut, Oromis. Remember what you said to me when I stood before you and the other Elders:
‘Anger is a poison. You must purge it from your mind or else it will corrupt your better nature.’
You should heed your own advice.”

“You cannot confuse me with your snake’s tongue, Galbatorix. You are an abomination, and we
shall see to it that you are eliminated, even if it costs us our lives.”

“But why should it, Oromis? Why should you pit yourself against me? It saddens me that you
have allowed your hate to distort your wisdom, for you were wise once, Oromis, perhaps the
wisest member of our entire order. You were the first to recognize the madness eating away at my
soul, and it was you who convinced the other Elders to deny my request for another dragon egg.
That was very wise of you, Oromis. Futile, but wise. And somehow you managed to escape from
Kialandí and Formora, even after they had broken you, and then you hid until all but one of your
enemies had died. That too was wise of you, elf.”

A brief pause marked Galbatorix’s speech. “There is no need to continue fighting me. I freely
admit that I committed terrible crimes in my youth, but those days are long past, and when I
reflect upon the blood I have shed, it torments my conscience. Still, what would you have of me? I


cannot undo my deeds. Now, my greatest concern is ensuring the peace and prosperity of the
empire over which I find myself lord and master. Cannot you see that I have lost my thirst for
vengeance? The rage that drove me for so many years has burned itself to ashes. Ask yourself
this, Oromis: who is responsible for the war that has swept across Alagaësia? Not I. The Varden
were the ones who provoked this conflict. I would have been content to rule my people and leave
the elves and the dwarves and the Surdans to their own devices. But the Varden could not leave
well enough alone. It was they who chose to steal Saphira’s egg, and they who cover the earth
with mountains of corpses. Not I. You were wise once before, Oromis, and you can become wise
once again. Give up your hatred and join me in Ilirea. With you by my side, we can bring an end
to this conflict and usher in an era of peace that will endure for a thousand years or more.”

Glaedr was not persuaded. He tightened his crushing-piercing-jaws, causing Thorn to yowl. The
pain-noise seemed incredibly loud after Galbatorix’s speech.

In clear, ringing tones, Oromis said, “No. You cannot make us forget your atrocities with a balm
of honeyed lies. Release us! You have not the means to hold us here much longer, and I refuse to
exchange pointless banter with a traitor like yourself.”

“Bah! You are a senile old fool,” said Galbatorix, and his voice acquired a harsh, angry cast.
“You should have accepted my offer; you would have been first and foremost among my slaves. I
will make you regret your mindless devotion to your so-called justice. And you are wrong. I can
keep you thus as long as I want, for I have become as powerful as a god, and there are none who
can stop me!”

“You shall not prevail,” said Oromis. “Even gods do not endure forever.”

At that Galbatorix uttered a foul oath. “Your philosophy does not constrain me, elf! I am the
greatest of magicians, and soon I will be even greater still. Death will not take me. You, however,
shall die. But first you will suffer. You will both suffer beyond imagining, and then I will kill you,
Oromis, and I shall take your heart of hearts, Glaedr, and you will serve me until the end of
time.”

“Never!” exclaimed Oromis.

And Glaedr again heard the clash of swords on armor.

Glaedr had excluded Oromis from his mind for the duration of the fight, but their bond ran
deeper than conscious thought, so he felt it when Oromis stiffened, incapacitated by the searing
pain of his bone-blight-nerve-rot. Alarmed, Glaedr released Thorn’s leg and tried to kick the red
dragon away. Thorn howled at the impact but remained where he was. Galbatorix’s spell held the
two of them in place—neither able to move more than a few feet in any direction.

There was another metallic clang from above, and then Glaedr saw Naegling fall past him. The
golden sword flashed and gleamed as it tumbled toward the ground. For the first time, the cold
claw of fear gripped Glaedr. Most of Oromis’s word-will-energy was stored within the sword, and
his wards were bound to the blade. Without it, he would be defenseless.

Glaedr threw himself against the limits of Galbatorix’s spell, struggling with all his might to
break free. In spite of his efforts, however, he could not escape. And just as Oromis began to
recover, Glaedr felt Zar’roc slash Oromis from shoulder to hip.


Glaedr howled.
He howled as Oromis had howled when Glaedr lost his leg.
An inexorable force gathered inside of Glaedr’s belly. Without pausing to consider whether it was


possible, he pushed Thorn and Murtagh away with a blast of magic, sending them flying like
windblown leaves, and then tucked his wings against his sides and dove toward Gil’ead. If he
could get there fast enough, then Islanzadí and her spellcasters would be able to save Oromis.

The city was too far away, though. Oromis’s consciousness was faltering . . . fading . . . slipping
away. . . .

Glaedr poured his own strength into Oromis’s ruined frame, trying to sustain him until they
reached the ground. But for all the energy he gave to Oromis, he could not stop the bleeding, the
terrible bleeding.

Glaedr . . . release me,Oromis murmured with his mind .
A moment later, in an even fainter voice, he whispered,Do not mourn me.
And then the partner of Glaedr’s life passed into the void.
Gone.
Gone!
GONE!
Blackness. Emptiness.
He was alone.
A crimson haze descended over the world, throbbing in unison with his pulse. He flared his wings


and looped back the way he had come, searching for Thorn and his Rider. He would not let them
escape; he would catch them and tear at them and burn them until he had eradicated them from
the world.

Glaedr saw the red-shrike-dragon diving toward him, and he roared his grief and redoubled his
speed. The red dragon swerved at the last moment, in an attempt to flank him, but he was not fast
enough to evade Glaedr, who lunged and snapped and bit off the last three feet of the red
dragon’s tail. A fountain of blood sprayed from the stump. Yelping in agony, the red dragon
wriggled away and darted behind Glaedr. Glaedr started to twist around to face him, but the
smaller dragon was too quick, too nimble. Glaedr felt a sharp pain at the base of his skull, and
then his vision flickered and failed.

Where was he?
He was alone.
He was alone and in the dark.



He was alone and in the dark, and he could not move or see.

He could feel the minds of other creatures close by, but they were not the minds of Thorn and
Murtagh but of Arya, Eragon, and Saphira.

And then Glaedr realized where he was, and the true horror of the situation broke upon him, and
he howled into the darkness. He howled and he howled, and he abandoned himself to his agony,
not caring what the future might bring, for Oromis was dead, and he was alone.

Alone!

With a start, Eragon returned to himself.

He was curled into a ball. Tears streaked his face. Gasping, he pushed himself up off the floor and
looked for Saphira and Arya.

It took him a moment to comprehend what he saw.

The female spellcaster Eragon had been about to attack lay before him, slain by a single sword thrust.
The spirits she and her companions had summoned were nowhere to be seen. Lady Lorana was still
ensconced in her chair. Saphira was in the process of struggling to her feet on the opposite side of the
room. And the man who had been sitting on the floor amid the three other spellcasters was standing next
to him, holding Arya in the air by her throat.

The color had vanished from the man’s skin, leaving him bone white. His hair, which had been brown,
was now bright crimson, and when he looked at Eragon and smiled, Eragon saw that his eyes had
become maroon. In every aspect of appearance and bearing, the man resembled Durza.

“Our name is Varaug,” said the Shade. “Fear us.” Arya kicked at him, but her blows seemed to have no
effect.

The burning pressure of the Shade’s consciousness pressed against Eragon’s mind, trying to break down
his defenses. The force of the attack immobilized Eragon; he could barely repel the burrowing tendrils of
the Shade’s mind, much less walk or swing a sword. For whatever reason, Varaug was even stronger
than Durza, and Eragon was not sure how long he could withstand the Shade’s might. He saw that
Saphira was also under attack; she sat stiff and motionless by the balcony, a snarl carved on her face.

The veins in Arya’s forehead bulged, and her face turned red and purple. Her mouth was open, but she
was not breathing. With the palm of her right hand, she struck the Shade’s locked elbow and broke the
joint with a loud crack. Varaug’s arm sagged, and for a moment, Arya’s toes brushed the floor, but then
the bones in the Shade’s arm popped back into place, and he lifted her even higher.

“You shall die,” growled Varaug. “You shall all die for imprisoning us in this cold, hard clay.”

Knowing that Arya’s and Saphira’s lives were in peril stripped Eragon of every emotion, save that of
implacable determination. His thoughts as sharp and clear as a shard of glass, he drove himself at the
Shade’s seething consciousness. Varaug was too powerful, and the spirits that resided within him too
disparate, for Eragon to overwhelm and control, so Eragon sought to isolate the Shade. He surrounded
Varaug’s mind with his own: every time Varaug attempted to reach out toward Saphira or Arya, Eragon
blocked the mental ray, and every time the Shade attempted to shift his body, Eragon counteracted the


urge with a command of his own.

They battled at the speed of thought, fighting back and forth along the perimeter of the Shade’s mind,
which was a landscape so jumbled and incoherent, Eragon feared it would drive him mad if he gazed at it
for long. Eragon pushed himself to the utmost as he dueled with Varaug, striving to anticipate the Shade’s
every move, but he knew that their contest could only end with his own defeat. As fast as he was, Eragon
could not outthink the numerous intelligences contained within the Shade.

Eragon’s concentration eventually wavered, and Varaug seized upon the opportunity to force himself
further into Eragon’s mind, trapping him. . . transfixing him. . . suppressing his thoughts until Eragon could
do no more than stare at the Shade with dumb rage. An excruciating tingling filled Eragon’s limbs as the
spirits raced through his body, coursing down every one of his nerves.

“Your ring is full of light!” exclaimed Varaug, his eyes widening with pleasure. “Beautiful light! It will feed
us for a long time!”

Then he growled with anger as Arya grabbed his wrist and broke it in three places. She twisted free of
Varaug’s grip before he could heal himself and dropped to the ground, gasping for air. Varaug kicked at
her, but she rolled out of the way. She reached for her fallen sword.

Eragon trembled as he struggled to cast off the Shade’s oppressive presence.

Arya’s hand closed around the hilt of her sword. A wordless bellow escaped the Shade. He pounced on
her, and they rolled across the floor, wrestling for control of the weapon. Arya shouted and struck
Varaug in the side of his head with the pommel of the sword. The Shade went limp for an instant, and
Arya scrambled backward, pushing herself upright.

In a flash, Eragon freed himself from Varaug. Without consideration for his own safety, he resumed his
attack on the Shade’s consciousness, his only thought to restrain the Shade for a few moments.

Varaug rose onto one knee, then faltered as Eragon redoubled his efforts.

“Get him!” Eragon shouted.

Arya lunged forward, her dark hair flying. . . .

And she stabbed the Shade through his heart.

Eragon winced and extricated himself from Varaug’s mind even as the Shade recoiled from Arya, pulling
himself off her blade. The Shade opened his mouth and uttered a piercing, dithering wail that shattered
the panes of glass in the lantern above. He reached out toward Arya and tottered in her direction, then
stopped as his skin faded and became transparent, revealing the dozens of glittering spirits trapped within
the confines of his flesh. The spirits throbbed, growing in size, and Varaug’s skin split along the bellies of
his muscles. With a final burst of light, the spirits tore Varaug apart and fled the tower room, passing
through the walls as if the stone were insubstantial.

Eragon’s pulse gradually slowed. Then, feeling very old and very tired, he walked over to Arya, who
stood leaning against a chair, cupping the front of her neck with a hand. She coughed, spitting up blood.
Since she seemed incapable of talking, Eragon placed his hand over hers and said, “Waíse heill.” As the
energy to mend her injuries flowed out of him, Eragon’s legs weakened, and he had to brace himself
against the chair.


“Better?” he asked as the spell finished its work.

“Better,” Arya whispered, and favored him with a weak smile. She motioned toward where Varaug had

been. “We killed him. . . . We killed him, and yet we did not die.” She sounded surprised. “So few have
ever killed a Shade and lived.”

“That is because they fought alone, not together, like us.”

“No, not like us.”

“I had you to help me in Farthen Dûr, and you had me to help you here.”

“Yes.”

“Now I shall have to callyou Shadeslayer.”

“We are both—”

Saphira startled them by loosing a long, mournful keen. Still keening, she raked her claws across the

floor, chipping and scratching the stones. Her tail whipped from side to side, smashing the furniture and

the grim paintings on the walls.Gone! she said.Gone! Gone forever!

“Saphira, what’s wrong?” exclaimed Arya. When Saphira did not answer, Arya repeated the question to
Eragon.

Hating the words he spoke, Eragon said, “Oromis and Glaedr are dead. Galbatorix killed them.”

Arya staggered as if she had been hit. “Ah,” she said. She gripped the back of the chair so hard, her
knuckles turned white. Tears filled her slanted eyes, then spilled over onto her cheeks and coursed down
her face. “Eragon.” She reached out and grasped his shoulder, and almost by accident, he found himself
holding her in his arms. Eragon felt his own eyes grow wet. He clenched his jaw in an effort to maintain
his composure; if he started crying, he knew he would not be able to stop.

He and Arya remained locked together for a long while, consoling each other, then Arya withdrew and
said, “How did it happen?”

“Oromis had one of his seizures, and while he was paralyzed, Galbatorix used Murtagh to—” Eragon’s
voice broke, and he shook his head. “I’ll tell you about it along with Nasuada. She should know about
this, and I don’t want to have to describe it more than once.”

Arya nodded. “Then let us go and see her.”

SUNRISE
As Eragon and Arya escorted Lady Lorana down from the room in the tower, they encountered


Blödhgarm and the eleven other elves running up the staircase four steps at a time.

“Shadeslayer! Arya!” exclaimed a female elf with long black hair. “Are you hurt? We heard Saphira’s
lament, and we thought one of you might have died.”

Eragon glanced at Arya. His oath of secrecy to Queen Islanzadí would not allow him to discuss Oromis
or Glaedr while in the presence of anyone not from Du Weldenvarden—such as Lady Lorana—without
permission from the queen, Arya, or whoever might succeed Islanzadí to the knotted throne in Ellesméra.

She nodded and said, “I release you from your vow, Eragon, both of you. Speak of them to whomever
you choose.”

“No, we are not hurt,” Eragon said. “However, Oromis and Glaedr have just died, slain in battle over
Gil’ead.”

As one, the elves cried out in shock and then began to ply Eragon with dozens of questions. Arya raised
a hand and said, “Restrain yourselves. Now is not the time or place to satisfy your curiosity. There are
still soldiers about, and we do not know who might be listening. Keep your sorrow hidden within your
hearts until we are safe and secure.” She paused and looked at Eragon, then said, “I will explain the full
circumstances of their deaths to you once I know them myself.”

“Nen ono weohnata, Arya Dröttningu,” they murmured.

“Did you hear my call?” Eragon asked Blödhgarm.

“I did,” the fur-covered elf said. “We came as fast as we could, but there were many soldiers between
there and here.”

Eragon twisted his hand over his chest in the elves’ traditional gesture of respect. “I apologize for leaving
you behind, Blödhgarmelda. The heat of battle made me foolish and overconfident, and we nearly died
because of my mistake.”

“You need not apologize, Shadeslayer. We too made a mistake today, one which I promise we shall not
repeat. From now on, we will fight alongside you and the Varden without reserve.”

Together, they all trooped down the stairs to the courtyard outside. The Varden had killed or captured
most of the soldiers within the keep, and the few men who were still fighting surrendered once they saw
that Lady Lorana was in the custody of the Varden. Since the stairwell was too small for her, Saphira
had descended by wing to the courtyard and was waiting for them when they arrived.

Eragon stood with Saphira, Arya, and Lady Lorana while one of the Varden fetched Jörmundur. When
Jörmundur joined them, they informed him of what had happened within the tower—which amazed him
greatly—and then gave over Lady Lorana to his custody.

Jörmundur bowed to her. “You may rest assured, Lady, we shall treat you with the respect and dignity
due your station. We may be your enemies, but we are still civilized men.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “I am relieved to hear it. However, my main concern now is for the safety of
my subjects. If I might, I would like to speak with your leader, Nasuada, about her plans for them.”

“I believe she wishes to speak with you as well.”


As they parted, Lady Lorana said, “I am most grateful to you, elf, and to you as well, Dragon Rider, for
killing that monster before he could wreak sorrow and destruction upon Feinster. Fate has placed us on
opposite sides of this conflict, but that does not mean I cannot admire your bravery and prowess. We
may never meet again, so fare thee well, both of you.”

Eragon bowed and said, “Fare thee well, Lady Lorana.”

“May the stars watch over you,” said Arya.

Blödhgarm and the elves under his command accompanied Eragon, Saphira, and Arya as they searched
Feinster for Nasuada. They found her riding her stallion through the gray streets, inspecting the damage to
the city.

Nasuada greeted Eragon and Saphira with evident relief. “I’m glad you have finally returned. We’ve
needed you here these past few days. I see you have a new sword, Eragon, a Dragon Rider’s sword.
Did the elves give it to you?”

“In an indirect way, yes.” Eragon eyed the various people standing nearby and lowered his voice.
“Nasuada, we must talk with you alone. It’s important.”

“Very well.” Nasuada studied the buildings that lined the street, then pointed at a house that appeared
abandoned. “Let us talk in there.”

Two of Nasuada’s guards, the Nighthawks, ran forward and entered the house. They reappeared a few
minutes later and bowed to Nasuada, saying, “It’s empty, my Lady.”

“Good. Thank you.” She dismounted her steed, handed the reins to one of the men in her retinue, and
strode inside. Eragon and Arya followed.

The three of them wandered through the shabby building until they found a room, the kitchen, with a
window large enough to accommodate Saphira’s head. Eragon pushed opened the shutters, and Saphira
laid her head on the wooden counter. Her breath filled the kitchen with the smell of charred meat.

“We may speak without fear,” Arya announced after casting spells that would prevent anyone from
eavesdropping on their conversation.

Nasuada rubbed her arms and shivered. “What is this all about, Eragon?” she asked.

Eragon swallowed, wishing that he did not have to dwell upon Oromis and Glaedr’s fate. Then he said,
“Nasuada . . . Saphira and I were not alone. . . . There was another dragon and another Rider fighting
against Galbatorix.”

“I knew it,” breathed Nasuada, her eyes shining. “It was the only explanation that made sense. They
were your teachers in Ellesméra, weren’t they?”

They were,said Saphira,but no more .

“No more?”

Eragon pressed his lips together and shook his head, tears blurring his vision. “Just this morning they died


at Gil’ead. Galbatorix used Thorn and Murtagh to kill them; I heard him speak to them with Murtagh’s
tongue.”

The excitement drained from Nasuada’s face, replaced by a dull, empty expression. She sank into the
nearest chair and stared at the cinders in the cold fireplace. The kitchen was silent. At last she stirred and
said, “Are you sure they are dead?”

“Yes.”

Nasuada wiped her eyes on the hem of her sleeve. “Tell me about them, Eragon. Would you, please?”

So for the next half hour, Eragon spoke of Oromis and Glaedr. He explained how they had survived the
fall of the Riders and why they had chosen to keep themselves hidden thereafter. He explained about
their respective disabilities, and he spent some time describing their personalities and what it had been
like to study under them. Eragon’s sense of loss deepened as he remembered the long days he had spent
with Oromis on the Crags of Tel’naeír and the many things the elf had done for him and Saphira. As he
came to their encounter with Thorn and Murtagh at Gil’ead, Saphira lifted her head off the counter and
began to keen again, her mournful wail soft and persistent.

Afterward, Nasuada sighed and said, “I wish I could have met Oromis and Glaedr, but alas, it was not
to be. . . . There is one thing I still do not understand, Eragon. You said youheard Galbatorix speaking to
them. How could you?”

“Yes, I would like to know that as well,” said Arya.

Eragon looked for something to drink, but there was no water or wine in the kitchen. He coughed, then
launched into an account of their recent trip to Ellesméra. Saphira occasionally made a comment, but for
the most part, she left it to him to tell the story. Starting with the truth about his parentage, Eragon
proceeded in quick succession through the events of their stay, from their discovery of the brightsteel
under the Menoa tree to the forging of Brisingr to his visit with Sloan. Last of all, he told Arya and
Nasuada about the dragons’ heart of hearts.

“Well,” said Nasuada. She stood and walked the length of the kitchen and then back again. “You the
son of Brom, and Galbatorix leeching off the souls of dragons whose bodies have died. It’s almost too
much to comprehend. . . .” She rubbed her arms again. “At least we now know the true source of
Galbatorix’s power.”

Arya stood motionless, breathless, her expression stunned. “The dragons are still alive,” she whispered.
She clasped her hands together in a prayer-like fashion and held them against her chest. “They are still
alive after all these years. Oh, if only we could tell the rest of my race. How they would rejoice! And how
terrible their wrath would be when they heard of the enslavement of the Eldunarí! We would run straight
to Urû’baen, and we would not rest until we had freed the hearts of Galbatorix’s control, no matter how
many of us died in the process.”

But we cannot tell them,said Saphira.

“No,” said Arya, and lowered her gaze. “We cannot. But I wish we could.”

Nasuada looked at her. “Please do not take offense, but I wish that your mother, Queen Islanzadí, had
seen fit to share this information with us. We could have made use of it long ago.”


“I agree,” said Arya, frowning. “On the Burning Plains, Murtagh was able to defeat the two of
you”—she indicated Eragon and Saphira—“because you did not know that Galbatorix might have given
him some of the Eldunarí and thus you failed to act with appropriate caution. If not for Murtagh’s
conscience, you would both be trapped in Galbatorix’s service even now. Oromis and Glaedr, and my
mother too, had sound reasons for keeping the Eldunarí a secret, but their reticence was nearly our
undoing. I will discuss this with my mother when next we speak.”

Nasuada paced between the counter and the fireplace. “You have given me much to think about,
Eragon. . . .” She tapped the floor with the tip of her boot. “For the first time in the history of the Varden,
we know of a way to kill Galbatorix that might actually succeed. If we can separate him from these heart
of hearts, he will lose the better part of his strength, and then you and our other spellcasters will be able
to overpower him.”

“Yes, but how can we separate him from his hearts?” Eragon asked.

Nasuada shrugged. “I could not say, but I am sure it must be possible. From now on, you will work on
devising a method. Nothing else is as important.”

Eragon felt Arya studying him with unusual concentration. Unsettled, he made a questioning face at her.

“I always wondered,” said Arya, “why Saphira’s egg appeared to you, and not somewhere in an empty
field. It seemed too great a coincidence to have occurred purely by chance, but I could not think of any
plausible explanation. Now I understand. I should have guessed that you were Brom’s son. I did not
know Brom well, but I did know him, and you share a certain resemblance.”

“I do?”

“You should be proud to call Brom your father,” said Nasuada. “By all accounts, he was a remarkable
man. If not for him, the Varden wouldn’t exist. It seems fitting that you are the one to carry on his work.”

Then Arya said, “Eragon, may we see Glaedr’s Eldunarí?”

Eragon hesitated, then went outside and retrieved the pouch from Saphira’s saddlebags. Careful not to
touch the Eldunarí, he loosened the drawstring at the top and allowed the pouch to slide down around the
golden, gemlike stone. In contrast to when he had last seen it, the glow within the heart of hearts was dim
and feeble, as if Glaedr were barely conscious.

Nasuada leaned forward and stared into the swirling center of the Eldunarí, her eyes gleaming with
reflected light. “And Glaedr is really inside of here?”

He is,said Saphira.

“Can I speak with him?”

“You could try, but I doubt he would respond. He just lost his Rider. It will take him a long time to
recover from the shock, if ever. Please leave him be, Nasuada. If he wished to speak with you, he would
have done so already.”

“Of course. It was not my intention to disturb him in his time of grief. I shall wait to meet him until such
time as he has regained his composure.”


Arya moved closer to Eragon and placed her hands on either side of the Eldunarí, her fingers less than
an inch away from its surface. She gazed at the stone with an expression of reverence, seemingly lost
within its depths, then whispered something in the ancient language. Glaedr’s consciousness flared
slightly, as if in response.

Arya lowered her hands. “Eragon, Saphira, you have been given the most solemn responsibility: the
safekeeping of another life. Whatever happens, you must protect Glaedr. With Oromis gone, we shall
need his strength and wisdom more than ever before.”

Do not worry, Arya, we won’t allow any misfortune to befall him,Saphira promised.

Eragon covered the Eldunarí with the pouch again and fumbled with the drawstring, exhaustion rendering
him clumsy. The Varden had won an important victory and the elves had taken Gil’ead, but the
knowledge brought him little joy. He looked at Nasuada and asked, “What now?”

Nasuada lifted her chin. “Now,” she said, “we will march north to Belatona, and when we have captured
it, we will proceed onward to Dras-Leona and seize it as well, and then to Urû’baen, where we will cast
down Galbatorix or die trying. That is what we shall do now, Eragon.”

After they left Nasuada, Eragon and Saphira agreed to leave Feinster for the Varden’s camp so that
they could both rest undisturbed by the cacophony of noises within the city. With Blödhgarm and the rest
of Eragon’s guards ranged around them, they walked toward the main gates of Feinster, Eragon still
carrying Glaedr’s heart of hearts in his arms. Neither of them spoke.

Eragon stared at the ground between his feet. He paid little attention to the men who ran or marched
past; his part in the battle was finished, and all he wanted to do was lie down and forget the sorrows of
the day. The last sensations he had felt from Glaedr still reverberated through his mind:He was alone. He
was alone and in the dark. . . . Alone! Eragon’s breath caught as a wave of nausea swept over him.So
that is what it’s like to lose your Rider or your dragon. No wonder Galbatorix went insane .

We are the last,Saphira said.

Eragon frowned, not understanding.

The last free dragon and Rider,she explained.We are the only ones left. We are . . .

Alone.

Yes.

Eragon stumbled as his foot struck a loose stone he had overlooked. Miserable, he closed his eyes for a
moment.We can’t do this by ourselves, he thought.We can’t! We’re not ready . Saphira agreed, and
her grief and anxiety, combined with his, nearly incapacitated him.

When they arrived at the city gates, Eragon paused, reluctant to push his way through the large crowd
gathered in front of the opening, trying to flee Feinster. He glanced around for another route. As his eyes
passed over the outer walls, a sudden desire gripped him to see the city in the light of day.

Veering away from Saphira, he ran up a staircase that led to the top of the walls. Saphira uttered a short
growl of annoyance and followed, half opening her wings as she jumped from the street to the parapet in


a single bound.

They stood together on the battlements for the better part of an hour and watched as the sun rose. One
by one, rays of pale gold light streaked across the verdant fields from the east, illuminating the countless
motes of dust that drifted through the air. Where the rays struck a column of smoke, the smoke glowed
orange and red and billowed with renewed urgency. The fires among the hovels outside the city walls had
mostly died out, although since Eragon and Saphira had arrived, the fighting had set a score of houses
within Feinster ablaze, and the pillars of flame that leaped up from the disintegrating houses lent the
cityscape an eerie beauty. Behind Feinster, the shimmering sea stretched out to the far, flat horizon,
where the sails of a ship plowing its way northward were just visible.

As the sun warmed Eragon through his armor, his melancholy gradually dissipated like the wreaths of
mist that adorned the rivers below. He took a deep breath and exhaled, relaxing his muscles.

No,he said,we are not alone. I have you, and you have me. And there is Arya and Nasuada and
Orik, and many others besides who will help us along our way .

And Glaedr too,said Saphira.

Aye.

Eragon gazed down at the Eldunarí that lay covered within his arms and felt a rush of sympathy and
protectiveness toward the dragon who was trapped inside the heart of hearts. He hugged the stone closer
to his chest and laid a hand upon Saphira, grateful for their companionship.

We can do this,he thought.Galbatorix isn’t invulnerable. He has a weakness, and we can use that
weakness against him. . . . We can do this .

We can, and we must,said Saphira.

For the sake of our friends and our family—

—and for the rest of Alagaësia—

—we must do this.

Eragon lifted Glaedr’s Eldunarí over his head, presenting it to the sun and the new day, and he smiled,
eager for the battles yet to come, so that he and Saphira might finally confront Galbatorix and kill the
dark king.

HEREENDS THETHIRDBOOK
OF THEINHERITANCECYCLE.
THESTORYWILLCONTINUE ANDCONCLUDE
INBOOKFOUR.


THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales
is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2008 by Christopher Paolini

Illustrations on endpapers,Maps copyright © 2002 by Christopher Paolini. All rights reserved. Published
in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of
Random House, Inc., New York.

Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Visit us on the Web!
www.alagaesia.com
www.randomhouse.com/teens

Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools,
visit us atwww.randomhouse.com/teachers

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Paolini, Christopher.
Brisingr, or, The seven promises of Eragon Shadeslayer and
Saphira Bjartskular / Christopher Paolini. —1st ed.

p. cm. — (Inheritance ; bk. 3)
Summary: The further adventures of Eragon and his dragon, Saphira, as they continue to aid the Varden
in the struggle against the evil king, Galbatorix.
eISBN: 978-0-375-89141-0
[1. Fantasy. 2. Dragons—Fiction. 3. Youth’s writings.] I. Title. II. Title: Seven promises of Eragon
Shadeslayer and Saphira Bjartskular. III. Title: Eragon Shadeslayer and Saphira Bjartskular. IV. Title:
Saphira Bjartskular.
PZ7.P19535Bri 2008
[Fic]—dc22
2008024489
Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

v1.0

As always, this book is for my family.
And also for Jordan, Nina, and Sylvie,
the bright lights of a new generation.
Atra esterní ono thelduin.


BRISINGR




ON THEORIGIN OFNAMES:

To the casual observer, the various names an intrepid traveler will encounter throughout Alagaësia might
seem but a random collection of labels with no inherent integrity, culture, or history. However, as with
any land that different cultures—and in this case, different species—have repeatedly colonized, Alagaësia
acquired names from a wide array of unique sources, among them the languages of the dwarves, elves,
humans, and even Urgals. Thus, we can have Palancar Valley (a human name), the Anora River and
Ristvak’baen (elven names), and Utgard Mountain (a dwarf name) all within a few square miles of each
other.

While this is of great historical interest, practically it often leads to confusion as to the correct
pronunciation. Unfortunately, there are no set rules for the neophyte. You must learn each name upon its
own terms, unless you can immediately place its language of origin. The matter grows even more
confusing when you realize that in many places the resident population altered the spelling and
pronunciation of foreign words to conform to their own language. The Anora River is a prime example.
Originallyanora was spelledäenora, which meansbroad in the ancient language. In their writings, the
humans simplified the word toanora, and this, combined with a vowel shift whereinäe (ay-eh) was said
as the easiera (uh), created the name as it appears in Eragon’s time.

To spare readers as much difficulty as possible, I have compiled the following list, with the understanding
that these are only rough guidelines to the actual pronunciation. The enthusiast is encouraged to study the
source languages in order to master their true intricacies.


PRONUNCIATION:

Ajihad—AH-zhi-hod

Alagaësia—al-uh-GAY-zee-uh

Arya—AR-ee-uh

Blödhgarm—BLAWD-garm

Brisingr—BRISS-ing-gur

Carvahall—CAR-vuh-hall

Dras-Leona—DRAHS-lee-OH-nuh

Du Weldenvarden—doo WELL-den-VAR-den

Ellesméra—el-uhs-MEER-uh

Eragon—EHR-uh-gahn

Farthen Dûr—FAR-then DURE (durerhymes withlure )

Galbatorix—gal-buh-TOR-icks

Gil’ead—GILL-ee-id

Glaedr—GLAY-dur

Hrothgar—HROTH-gar

Islanzadí—iss-lan-ZAH-dee

Jeod—JODE (rhymes withload )

Murtagh—MUR-tag (murrhymes withpurr )

Nasuada—nah-soo-AH-dah

Nolfavrell—NOLL-fah-vrel (nollrhymes withtoll )

Oromis—OR-uh-miss

Ra’zac—RAA-zack

Saphira—suh-FEAR-uh

Shruikan—SHREW-kin

Sílthrim—SEAL-thrim (sílis a hard sound to transcribe; it’s made by flicking the tip of the tongue off the


roof of the mouth)

Skgahgrezh—skuh-GAH-grezh

Teirm—TEERM

Trianna—TREE-ah-nuh

Tronjheim—TRONJ-heem

Urû’baen—OO-roo-bane

Vrael—VRAIL

Yazuac—YAA-zoo-ack

Zar’roc—ZAR-rock

THEANCIENTLANGUAGE:

Adurna rïsa.—Water, rise.

Agaetí Blödhren—Blood-oath Celebration (held once a century to honor the original pact between elves

and dragons)

älfa-kona—elf woman

Äthalvard—an organization of elves dedicated to the preservation of their songs and poems

Atra du evarínya ono varda, Däthedr-vodhr.—May the stars watch over you, honored Däthedr.

Atra esterní ono thelduin, Eragon Shur’tugal.—May good fortune rule over you, Eragon Dragon Rider.

Atra guliä un ilian tauthr ono un atra ono waíse sköliro fra rauthr.—May luck and happiness follow you

and may you be shielded from misfortune.

audr—up

Bjartskular—Brightscales

Blödhgarm—Bloodwolf

brisingr—fire

Brisingr, iet tauthr.—Fire, follow me.

Brisingr raudhr!—Red fire!

deyja—die

draumr kópa—dream stare


dröttningu—princess
Du deloi lunaea.—Smooth the earth/dirt.
Du Namar Aurboda—The Banishing of the Names
Du Vrangr Gata—The Wandering Path
edur—a tor or prominence
Eka eddyr aí Shur’tugal . . . Shur’tugal . . . Argetlam.—I am a Dragon Rider . . . Dragon Rider . . .

Silver Hand.
Eka elrun ono.—I thank you.
elda—a gender-neutral honorific suffix of great praise, attached with a hyphen
Eldhrimner O Loivissa nuanen, dautr abr deloi/Eldhrimner nen ono weohnataí medh solus un

thringa/Eldhrimner un fortha onr fëon vara/Wiol allr sjon.—Grow, O beautiful Loivissa, daughter of the
earth/Grow as you would with sun and rain/Grow and put forth your flower of spring/For all to see.

Eldunarí—the heart of hearts
Erisdar—the flameless lanterns both the elves and the dwarves use (named after the elf who invented
them)

faelnirv—elven liqueur
fairth—a picture taken by magical means on a shingle of slate
fell—mountain
finiarel—an honorific suffix for a young man of great promise, attached with a hyphen
flauga—fly
fram—forward
Fricai onr eka eddyr.—I am your friend.
gánga—go Garjzla, letta!—Light, stop!
gedwëy ignasia—shining palm
Helgrind—The Gates of Death
Indlvarn—a certain type of pairing between a Rider and dragon jierda—break; hit
könungr—king


Kuldr, rïsa lam iet un malthinae unin böllr.—Gold, rise to my hand and bind into an orb.
kveykva—lightning
lámarae—a fabric made by cross-weaving wool and nettle threads (similar in construction to

linsey-woolsey, but of higher quality)
letta—stop
Liduen Kvaedhí—Poetic Script
loivissa—a blue, deep-throated lily that grows in the Empire
maela—quiet
naina—make bright
nalgask—a mixture of beeswax and hazelnut oil used to moisten the skin
Nen ono weohnata, Arya Dröttningu.—As you will, Princess Arya.
seithr—witch
Shur’tugal—Dragon Rider
slytha—sleep
Stenr rïsa!—Stone, rise!
svit-kona—a formal honorific for an elf woman of great wisdom
talos—a cactus found near Helgrind
thaefathan—thicken
Thorta du ilumëo!—Speak the truth!
vakna—awaken
vodhr—a male honorific suffix of middling praise, attached with a hyphen
Waíse heill!—Be healed!
yawë—a bond of trust
THEDWARFLANGUAGE:
Ascûdgamln—fists of steel
Az Knurldrâthn—The Trees of Stone


Az Ragni—The River

Az Sartosvrenht rak Balmung, Grimstnzborith rak Kvisagûr—The Saga of King Balmung of
Kvisagûr

Az Sindriznarrvel—The Gem of Sindri
barzûl—curse someone with ill fate
delva—a term of endearment among the dwarves; also a form of gold nodule indigenous to the Beor

Mountains that the dwarves greatly prize
dûr—our
dûrgrimst—clan (literally, “our hall,” or “our home”)
dûrgrimstvren—clan war
eta—no
Eta! Narho ûdim etal os isû vond! Narho ûdim etal os formvn mendûnost brakn, az Varden, hrestvog

dûr grimstnzhadn! Az Jurgenvren qathrid né dômar oen etal—No! I will not let that happen! I will not let

these beardless fools, the Varden, destroy our country. The Dragon War left us weak and not—
Fanghur—dragon-like creatures that are smaller and less intelligent than their cousins (native to the Beor
Mountains)

Farthen Dûr—Our Father
Feldûnost—frostbeard (a species of goat native to the Beor Mountains)
Gáldhiem—Bright/shining head
Ghastgar—spear-throwing contest akin to jousting and fought on the backs of Feldûnost
grimstborith—clan chief (literally, “hall chief ”; plural isgrimstborithn )
grimstcarvlorss—arranger of the house
grimstnzborith—ruler of the dwarves, whether king or queen (literally, “halls’ chief ”)
hûthvír—double-bladed staff weapon used by Dûrgrimst Quan
Hwatum il skilfz gerdûmn!—Listen to mine words!
Ingeitum—fire workers; smiths
Isidar Mithrim—Star Rose (the star sapphire)
knurla—dwarf (literally, “one of stone”; plural isknurlan )



knurlaf—woman/she/her
knurlag—man/he/him
knurlagn—men
Knurlcarathn—stoneworkers; masons
Knurlnien—Stone Heart
Ledwonnû—Kílf’s necklace; also used as a general term fornecklace
menknurlan—unstone ones/those who are not, or are without, stone (the worst insult in Dwarvish;

cannot be directly translated into English)
mérna—lake/pool
Nagra—giant boar, native to the Beor Mountains
Nal, Grimstnzborith Orik!—Hail, King Orik!
ornthrond—eagle eye
Ragni Darmn—River of Small Red Fish
Ragni Hefthyn—River Guard
Shrrg—giant wolf, native to the Beor Mountains
Skilfz Delva—Mine Delva (seedelva for translation)
thriknzdal—the temper line on the blade of a differentially tempered weapon
Tronjheim—Helm of Giants
Ûn qroth Gûntera!—Thus spoke Gûntera!
Urzhad—giant cave bear, native to the Beor Mountains
Vargrimst—clanless/banished
Vrenshrrgn—War Wolves
werg—the dwarves’ equivalent ofugh (used humorously in the place name Werghadn;Werghadn

translates as either “the land of ugh” or, more liberally, “the ugly land”)
THENOMADLANGUAGE:
no—an honorific suffix attached with a hyphen to the main name of someone you respect